FLASH

My horoscope for today: VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22) Do some writing. Once you let go and let the words flow, the process is enthralling.

Just in time for another writing contest at Jason Evan’s The Clarity of Night. All you need to do is create a 250-word story based on the photograph to the right. There are cash prizes and no entry fee, which is a rarity in these harsh economic times. Watch for an announcement at his site for the submission window period.

My interest in flash-fiction hasn’t waned. A majority of what I read from on-line literary magazines is flash stories. It’s the most difficult art form to pull off (besides poetry). I hope to see you at the competition.

Recommended flash-fiction: Taco Foot by Jack Pendarvis. Where else can you find a flash-fiction story told in 3 chapters?

Also, if you're really in the writing groove, check-out the Motor City Burning Press website (click on logo) for submission information.

CHARACTERS

I wish I could come up with some original characters of my own, characters with real voices (the gravellier the better), characters with physical limitations who beat insurmountable odds and make the reader all warm and fuzzy inside. I’m not sure I can do this, or should I say, I’m not sure the composite sketches I’ve drawn lately are satisfactory. I’m basing most of my research on listening, on ear-hustling.

In the prison lunchroom the other day, the Horticulture instructor and one-time Institutional Maintenance teacher (aka Mopology educator) talked about a one-legged student buffing the hallway floors. “Spun him around like a top.” He said it as if he were reporting the news with the utmost objectivity, with no inflection in his voice. “The buffer knocked him on his ass a few times.” Someone asked for a name. I’m not sure he remembered the student’s actual name and if he did, I must’ve forgotten it. “The other prisoners,” he replied, “called him Kickstand.” No empathy in prison.

In today’s photo, my brother and I are proudly sitting on my Dad’s BSA while he takes our picture. Do you see how I arrived here? Why I’ve chosen this pic? I’m the little guy in front.

WHEN TO CATCH A STORY

Gamblers will tell you about their winnings; As if the lever they’re pulling serves one function and one function only: It opens a secret door to their money trough. "I’m going to the Motor City Casino after my shift," the conversation starts. I needn’t remind my one coworker about how she’d been held hostage on her last visit when someone called in a fake bomb threat.

As for me, I’d rather set foot on my Dad’s Starcraft boat, or at least cast a line from shore into the murky waters below. "I’m going fishing after work," my conversation starts. And like my fellow gamblers, you’re sure to hear stories about that big whale-of-a-fish that nearly got away. And if he did get away, well then, he just got bigger—"I was up by six hundred dollars before my luck had changed." How else do you soften your losses?

On a similar note, my wife’s been gearing up for her garden tour, and like most Master Gardeners, she’s tending to extra plants that’ll be free to a good home. Near our shed, in the direct sun, are four plastic dish pans filled with water plants. To our surprise, baby goldfish had inhabited the same area. "I remember," my Dad says, recalling his youth as he taps on the goldfish bowl, "having to clean the eaves on our farmhouse and finding minnows swimming around." He says this as if it were an every day natural occurrence. He needn’t explain how they got up there. I jot this down in my notebook for future use in a story.

PRISON GRADUATION 2009

I'm not quite sure how I got roped into it, probably because I'm an "Old Head,” and even though I received a 4.0 grade in my college public speaking course, I certainly didn't volunteer for the task. I couldn't duck-n-dodge the Master of Ceremonies duty for this year's prison graduation. We had approximately 140 people in attendance, including Jeff Gerritt, a Detroit Free Press columnist. He was our keynote speaker offering words of wisdom to approximately 100 inmates.

With my back against the wall, with no room to maneuver, I agreed to MC; I did it under the following conditions: Get me an interview and photo op with Jeff Gerritt. Make it front page material. Also, allow me the freedom to give my opinions without censorship by the Michigan Department of Corrections.

Were my demands met? Nope. I guess I wanted too much. Still, the graduation went as smooth and silky as the skin on a baby catfish.

The highlight of the event: One of the GED Graduates, bloated and crazy from all his psychotropic meds, did as I had suggested in our rehearsal. "Mr. T," he reminded me, "remember to remove your rubber bands before stepping up to the podium.”

Thank you, Inmate Brown!

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WHAT REALLY STINKS

I’m puzzled as to why I can never place in the top three at the annual Bayport, Michigan, Good Ole’ Boys Cat Fish Tournament. My wife is quick to point out that it shouldn’t matter as long as I had fun. "Besides," she minimizes, "’Catfish’ is one word and ‘Olay’ is a skin moisturizer." I’ve been hearing this for years, or whenever I wear the latest tournament ball cap around the yard. It’s a consolation prize; everybody gets one for entering the competition. I paid for it—fifty bucks—so I might as well wear the damn thing. (Side note: Should I ask my wife if "ball cap" is a compound word?)

Anyway, I’ve tried all kinds of stink bait. I’ve packaged sun-ripened chicken liver in small strips of panty hose. I’ve smeared garlic & cheese paste on small plastic plugs with embedded hooks. I’ve injected night crawlers with store bought pheromones (makes them swell-up to twice their original size and gives them sex appeal). None of these methods has worked. This time I bought leeches at $2.99 per dozen because Billy P. (who places year after year) uses them. He didn’t fair as well this time, no prize money. Still, my hat goes off to him; he hauled in bigger fish and I’m sure he wasn’t as prepared as past years considering he’s running on batteries thanks to a recent heart-attack. Did he not use leeches? I’m not sure. What I do know is that baiting the hook isn’t easy when the leech is latched to your skin.

I’m home now. My neighbor leans against the fence. "How’d the fishing tournament go?" He’s originally from down south. He considers me a Yankee. He knows how I’ll answer; it’s the same damn response. I give him the weights of the top three fish. I’m sure he’s unimpressed. "What really stinks," I say, "is having to go back to work." He loves every minute of it. He’s retired. I wonder if he uses skin moisturizer after a hard day of gardening. Maybe I should ask him. But I won't.

WHEN A SUBURBANITE SUFFERS

There’s decay in the Motor City; it’s in the roots of my teeth,
stuck like taffy, I gnaw and pull at the yellow tape. There’s
fencing too, down the south side of a dead-end street—a factory
caught in my braces, Everywhere: foreclosed homes and empty
lots, worse than unfilled cavities. I gum Better Mades and dream
of a stimulus package in a brown paper bag placed on the console
of my Chevy. Whiskey and Vernors, for medicinal purposes,
me traveling, no tires, just cement blocks and fragmite. Pain too,
in my jaw, raw raw pain, a telling sign that I’m alive. I step into a
blacktop oven and smile my jagged smile and scale the chain link
fence and yell to my fellow Detroiters, “We must organize!”






Logo contest here! Winner gets $50.

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Congrats to George Dila for his second place finish in Literal-Latte's short story contest!

LOSING CREDIBILITY: A QUEST FOR CHANGE

I never really think about it—the routines set forth in my medium security classroom. I just roll with it. I’m certainly not influenced by the status quo. Prisoner management, to me anyway, is like chaos theory: Chaos breeds order and vice-versa. Prison life, if you really think about it, is all about routine; Upset that balance, that state of equilibrium, and there’s bound to be a fall-out. What comes afterward is more of the same: Routine.

I don’t know why, but for some reason I always give the absence slips to the older black tutor, and he, in turn, walks the long corridor and drops it off on the officer’s podium. My students never say anything about it, and this tutor delivers with his usual aplomb.

One day, without thinking of the repercussions, I gave the absence slip to a young white tutor. Why not? It’s part of his job description too. Besides, the older black tutor is heavily engaged in a crossword puzzle. Next thing I know, a young black gang-banger with adjustment issues is vocalizing his displeasure. “You’re a rat,” he announces to the white tutor upon his return. “How ‘bout some cheese, Rat.”

I warn him about the inappropriateness of his comments.

“He’s a snitch,” he continues.

I try to reason with him. “Look,” I say, “you never had a problem when Mr. Terrance ran the slip up front.”

He makes no allowances, “They’re all a bunch of rats.”

I make no allowances: I throw his ass out and drop him from my roster.

A day later he’s at my classroom doorstep. “I see the judge in two weeks and if he finds out that I’m not in school …” he stares at the floor, at his feet “…What I’m trying to say is: Can I come back?”

I think about it for a hot second. “Not a problem. Here.” I hand him an absence slip.

He holds it like it’s a piece of rotten, stinky cheese. And why shouldn’t he? His mellow’s on it. The tutors and I chuckle. “I’m not sure he’s up for the job,” Mr. Terrance says.

Now he has to prove himself. Sure enough, by the time he gets to the end of corridor, he’s changing his mind. He re-enters my classroom, places the slip on my desk and says, “I can’t do it.”

“That’s what I get for sending a kid to do a man’s job,” I say loud enough for the whole class to hear. “Kick rocks.”

“You’re all a bunch of rats,” he yells on his way out.

YOUNG SHOELESS JOE

Let’s call him Shoeless Joe—you’ll discover why—a young prisoner learning how to do his time. I’ve had to warn him over and over and over: Quit screwing around. Stay focused. "This is not sixth grade camp," I say. "This is prison. You’re not here to make friends."

He laughs.

“These guys will do you, I mean really really do you,” I add.

Shoeless Joe refuses to listen, refuses to take my advice. He wants to argue instead. He thinks he has game. I give him my Eddie Haskell, tell-it-like-it-is, in-your-face, reality-check, “Back when I started with the department you were shitting in your diaper. In fact, you still got milk on your breath.”

Shoeless Joe gets angry. I don’t know, maybe he thinks I’m his camp counselor, maybe he thinks I’ll serve him graham crackers and milk, and burp him afterward. “You’re no game player,” he tells me. Most teachers aren’t, but if that’s what needs to be done to teach him a lesson, then so be it.

One day I observe Shoeless Joe concealing something in his shirt. Without implicating myself for violating a certain policy, because I would never do that, implicate myself, I confiscate a size nine state shoe. I know it isn’t his—he’s wearing his state shoes. He begs me to give it back because he lent his gym shoes to another inmate and took the man’s state shoes as collateral. Shoeless Joe ain’t got no game. He has no way of retrieving what was once his.

“What am I gonna do?” he asks.

“Deal with it,” I say, “Playa.” He looks dejected. “Maybe you can do a one shoe trade.”

FIGHTING CANCER WITH BATS

I am a survivor of cancer (10 years and counting) and like you, I am not dead. In fact, I’ve got plenty of fight left in me.

Last weekend I participated in a Relay for Life Fundraiser at the local high school. It didn’t go as planned. Teenagers sporting hunters-orange sheriff’s vests stood near strategically placed cones; their mission: Allow only “Regional Baseball” participants and their fans entrance to the empty school parking lot and no one else.

We had a van loaded with fundraiser baskets and the nearest parking lot was unaccessible. We explained our situation, emphasizing “drop off only.” “Sorry,” we were told, “you need to use the other parking lot near the high school pool.” This didn’t make sense. Why would we unload from a distance farther away? We parked our van across the street in a friend’s driveway and made our way toward the Relay for Life area. The Baseball Gestapo informed my wife and me that we could not walk across their reserved parking lot. Again, this made absolutely no sense. Were they concerned that we’d get hit by a foul ball? That we would die that instant? I doubt it. I kept my cool even though I had visions of driving my van over their cones and yelling out the window, “I guess baseball’s more important than finding a cure for cancer!”

On a positive note, our booth raised the most money. In the above picture are some of the survivors, including a dear friend diagnosed with breast cancer eight months ago.

PUNKSHOOASHUN & GRRRHAMMER

Have you ever heard of the agentless writer who converted a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel into a double-spaced manuscript, changed the author’s name to his, created a new title, and sent it to 20 or so publishers? He kept track of the numerous rejections, including one from the book’s actual publisher, as well as those that never responded. One small house in Florida did offer a contract, but he knew better than to accept. The name of the book: The Yearling.

I first read about this incident in Jeff Herman’s Writer’s Guide to Book Editors, Publishers, and Literary Agents. Although I’m not actively pursuing an agent, I often think of this scenario when receiving rejection letters and emails. I’ve never submitted a book-length manuscript—I’m not sure I could go the distance, preferring short-stories, flash fiction, and the occasional nonfiction piece instead. I guess the rejections are much more tolerable knowing that I haven’t wasted too much time on a writing project.

This brings me to the following rejection email from Matt McGee, the editor of Falling Star Magazine. After being informed that my story made it to the editorial review board and after waiting approximately three months, here’s the final message:

JR,

Thank you for your submission on our theme “Hide Your Love Away.” Rather than send along a simple rejection notice, I thought you & your writing may benefit from reading what one of our editors had to say about the work.

Re: Ruth Mondo

This is a very interesting characterization with a somewhat hopeless protagonist who is incredibly strong and resilient. It needs work; serious work in terms of making the sequence easier to follow. Stream of consciousness stories are often like that because they sometimes exhibit broken synapses of the mind.

First of all, I would strongly encourage this author to rewrite for accuracy and refinement and then point out where he might start; punctuation would be a good place because it is not merely a “refinement” or a “convention”. Instead, it is a need of the flow. Without a doubt, there are images and moments in which there is very sensitive pathos.

In a word, I like this a lot even though it cries for rewrite.

My response: None.
Wait: … Thanks, Anonymous Reader/Editor.

LOST IN THE WORDS AND DETAILS

We were watching the 6 o’clock news, my wife and I, when she suddenly asked, “Do you know the reason behind the name?” She was referring to the five-year old girl everyone was searching for.

We’d been following the latest developments: the mom who met her boyfriend at a probation and parole office. Burglar meets sex offender, respectively—only in Michigan. He was in direct violation of his parole for associating with someone that has a child. Back to jail he went.

Investigators found children’s toys in his hotel room and a bloody knife. But the plot thickens. Mom’s van was on loan from another sex offender. Had she been too trusting? Or too stupid? Did she give a shit? What world is she living in? What kind of world are we living in?

Still, I didn’t know the reason behind the five-year old girl’s name. “Nevaeh,” I mispronounced.

“It spells heaven backward,” my wife said.

*** Latest Development ***

Last night’s 11 o’clock news informed us that Nevaeh was at the Lord Willing Campground the day before her disappearance and that the blood on the knife wasn’t hers.

LOW TECH MANUFACTURING IN DETROIT

I discovered the following video footage while cleaning my basement (see below). If my memory serves me correct, I narrated this piece in 1989. My wife might argue that it’s from the early 90’s. I do know this much: the company secretary operated the camcorder. She and I started dating a few months prior, even though I vowed never to mix pleasure with work. Three years later we married. She might argue that it was at least one year prior and four years later. We have our differences.

As for the video content: It’s a "How To" piece on making locker mirrors; something I knew all to well, having manufactured them for five years. My lines were not rehearsed, nor did I really care that much considering it was an assignment for an Instructional Media Class at Madonna College in Livonia, Michigan. In my opinion, a majority of the education courses were, and still are, a waste of time and money. I did what needed to be done in order to get my teaching certificate, that’s all that mattered.

I didn’t have too many fond memories of college, especially that IM Class. I remember standing around a film projector waiting for my turn to demonstrate that I could thread the film properly without damaging the equipment. I remember thinking, Isn’t that what those nerdy high school AV kids are for? Still, I kept my mouth shut and went through the motions, not knowing that my future students would do most of their learning the good old fashion way: a book, a pencil, and a sheet of paper.

It’s amazing how much junk I’ve accumulated over the years. I’m having difficulty letting go of the past, but each week an extra garbage bag full of videotapes, cassettes, books, and papers are dropped off at the curb. It’s like shedding an old skin; I should’ve been doing this all along.

MORE ...

Yesterday morning, after one sip of hazelnut coffee, I unfurled the Detroit Free Press and read the front-page headline: Freed Felons, How Safe Are We? The article did not surprise me, nor did I question its objectivity. But I immediately grew suspicious because of the accompanying photograph. Why is it that all of a sudden journalists and photographers have easy access inside Michigan’s prisons? What happened to the media ban? Not that I ever agreed with a media ban.

Perhaps it was lifted a long time ago. Perhaps after Dr. Kevorkian, aka Dr. Death, was credited with time served and let go. Perhaps the Michigan Department of Corrections was forced to lift the ban after all those complaints from female prisoners. I’m not always on top of the latest news or policies - that’s for sure. For instance, one time a corrections officer questioned me regarding my multipurpose pocketknife. “The blade’s under two-inches,” I said, proud of myself for knowing the criteria. Unfortunately the policy had changed to “absolutely no knife of any kind.”

The intent for carrying a pocketknife had nothing to do with protection, and I certainly wasn’t going to loan it to an inmate. Once in awhile I’d unfold the mini-scissors to cut paper. As for yesterday’s article, I’m not sure of its intent. Inform the public? I guess so. Scare folks? Maybe.

One last thing: the photograph’s setting, if I were to take an educated guess, is in one of my old classrooms at Ryan Correctional Facility, Detroit. Which classroom I’m not sure—I taught in four different areas after various critical incidences, two of which I’ll never forget: the escape of ten inmates and the sexual assault on a female teacher. These are just added facts and not meant to sway public opinion. I’m certainly not saving any money through my words and actions.

SOME THINGS NEVER LEAVE YOU

Across the street, where the ditch was filled, my neighbor waters his seeded lawn. I look downward, into the new culvert. “Water table must be high.”

He says, “Yes,” notices the run-off, and moves his garden hose to another spot. “Summer’s finally here. You got any plans?”

“No. Not really,” I answer. He’s a civilian worker, an electrician at Selfridge Air National Guard Base. I ask, “How ‘bout you?”

“No. I’m looking forward to retirement in a few years.”

I don’t speak to my neighbors that often—opting to keep my distance with a friendly wave. Our conversation seems strained. I’ve been meaning to ask him about someone. I figure now is as good a time as any. “Do you know a guy named H?”

I have his attention. He says, “He worked for me. Good worker too.” He turns off the nozzle on the garden hose. “I never knew he was that way. We had a complaint from a female worker claiming that he was stalking her, but nothing really came of it.”

I tell him that yeah, he’s a good worker, tutored for me, helped the other inmates with their school work. “Whatever he did,” I add, “must’ve been extremely violent.”

My neighbor knows more about it than I do. “He raped his niece while on vacation up north. Never saw him again.”

Our conversation doesn’t last much longer. He goes back to watering his grass, and I return to my property. We’re minding our own business, like good neighbors do.

Rick Michael, my union rep, speaks out regarding the early release of Michigan prisoners.

SMALL TALK BEFORE THE WEEKEND

I don’t care how much money Jay-Z has, or how much Fifty Cents is worth, or whether Eminem is the better rapper. I don’t care about how Lil’ Kim got railroaded on Dancing With the Stars, or how sizzling-hot she looked in those sequin outfits. I don’t care about your previous sexual escapades or how you “hit a lick” at some liquor store on Six Mile. Obviously you care about these things because it’s all you talk about during GED Class. Sometimes you’re so passionate, so serious with your music, t.v. shows, and sports, that you disrupt the entire class to argue your point.

So why are you angry when I post the GED testing schedule and you discover that you’re not on the list? Why the concern now? If you really cared about finishing school you would shut your pie-hole and do the assigned work. My answer to your question,“Why ain’t I testing?” has never wavered: “It’s not important to you.”

Don’t act shocked. Your actions dictate my reaction, my explanation. Pick up a book once in awhile. They got words in them. Words lead to knowledge. Do a little schoolwork now and then. My perception will not change overnight, but if you continue to do the right thing (instead of shucking and jiving and posturing and talking about how many points LeBron James scored the other night) I’ll probably give you a shot at qualifying for the GED Exams. Until then, you got absolutely nothing coming to you. Your choice. Not mine. Think about. Choose. In the meantime, I’m going home to enjoy my weekend.

BACKYARD KITCHEN

Am I to stop what I’m doing when the neighbors power wash their Little Tikes Kitchen Set with all its accessories? Should I tell them ex post facto that it’s okay to line their plastic “Made-in-China” toys along my wooden fence to dry? I guess it doesn’t really matter; I’ve been looking at their Toys-R-Us collection all winter long, so why not “temporarily” encroach on my property? I should be comfortable with it by now: The previous neighbors parked a boat and trailer on my lawn without asking for permission. After they moved I hopped the fence and did a little celebratory “hot tubbing.” Unfortunately, the new neighbors did not repair it; instead, they hauled it away.

So I’m jabbing my Ryobi weed whacker (“Made-in-Canada”) along the fence-line and I guess I’m throwing a little grass and dirt here and there—it’s bound to happen no matter how careful I am—and the neighbor lady’s screaming for her husband to move their precious junk off my lawn. He, in turn, scrambles to please her. Am I sorry? Yeah, sure … for him.

With Memorial weekend fast approaching and warm weather forecasted, I’ll do some swimming in my pool, cook a few burgers and perhaps converse with this young couple across the chain link fence. It’s the neighborly thing to do. Anything is better than dealing with mentally disturbed prisoners; I just hope my neighbors can deal with me.

OBSERVATION

What do you do with a guy who won’t come out of his cell? What do you do when you make your rounds, peer into that slim rectangular window, and see a single empty bed with a semi-exposed mattress? Do you lengthen your routine beyond the usual intervals? Your partner draws nearer, squeezing her face into that same rectangular frame. She asks, “Do you see how the blankets are pulled in?” You nod yes. She tells you about another man who cuts himself open and pulls out his intestines. But this guy’s different; they call him the Cocoon Man. He’s in there, in the mattress, in his safe place where he relieves himself, where he sleeps. He’ll come out occasionally when he’s hungry.

What do you do? What does anyone do?

They keep him in prison. They feed him. They give him a foam mattress.

NO ID BADGE REQUIRED

When the Palace of Auburn Hills first opened, my wife (whom I did not know of at that time) was directed not to let anyone into the arena without the proper ID badge. She dutifully obliged. “You’re going to laugh,” she told me a few years afterward.

Detroit’s Bad Boys were winning NBA Championships (back to back) and she and I were dating (The Locker Room / Pizza & Pitcher of Beer or The Shamrock Pub / Burgers & Beer). I reminded her that a concierge needn’t be as concerned about security as, well you know, those Burns Security Guards.

“Are you kidding?” she asked, before recalling a NBA player’s gun incident in the parking lot (Dennis Rodman). “Besides,” she confessed, “I knew the basketball players because of their height.”

“So why am I going to laugh?”

She went on to described an older, more sophisticated gentleman, real slick, how he thought he’d waltz right by without flashing the appropriate credentials. She thought he might have been an autograph seeker. Turned out it was Chuck Daly, the Detroit Piston’s basketball coach; I chuckled. An ID badge isn't necessary to gain entrance into Heaven; May he rest in peace.

As for identification, I received a gold-plated nametag last week with the following engraved message “I make a difference.” Also, since it was staff appreciation week, I was given a free grilled hamburger for lunch and six days off without pay.