LOST, FOUND & CLARITY OF NIGHT

Another happy childhood memory, another “Young Author’s Award” (1973), and another disturbing page from a much larger work. Perhaps Julie (see her comment on July 8th’s post) has a valid point—I’m beginning to see and hear the poetry; the words are jumping off the prison stationary.









There’s no need for commentary here, but if you’d like to read my flash fiction story, “The Sober Truth about Tyler & Zachary on Bickerstaff Street” then "X" marks the spot. Also, as the competition “wines” down (deliberate spelling, pun intended), I’ll give you the links to my favorites.

LOST & FOUND

I threw out my high school diploma years ago; curbed it with the regular trash. I’m not sure why I had done this.

—Why did the ancient mariner shoot the albatross?
—Why not?
—Because it was there.

I was pleasantly surprised when I discovered a “Young Author’s Award” tucked between the pages of a book I’d read long ago (James Dickey). It’s those things that we don’t readily see that end up surviving. I won this award two years in a row, 6th and 7th grade, and attended a Young Writers’ Conference at Malow Junior High School. What did I write about? Beats me. What I do know is that thirty-five years later and I have yet to attend another writing conference. Most of my stories are workshopped amongst the felons I teach.

On a different note, when I showed this certificate to my brother, he recalled Principal Cunningham’s daughter. When we were both in college, he dated her for a short period of time. Her first name escapes us.

As for the second, fairly current document written on prisoner stationery, it’s the misplaced work of a delusional individual. This is part of a much larger work that he is trying to get published. I wonder how long it will take before he discovers that his masterpiece is incomplete. Perhaps the story is so disjointed that it shouldn’t take away from his brilliance. I will say this: most of his time and energy is devoted to his art.

TURN THE ... SCROLL THE ...

Based on the premise that “you are your books,” I have to say I’m losing myself. Call me an organ donor, donating pieces of myself to my local community’s book sale, basing my sacrifices on the following: “Will I ever read that novel or that short story collection again?” I already know the answer and I refuse to delve any deeper than one word—“NO”—even after scanning my bookshelves, reading each title, jogging my memory of stories, plots, themes, characters, authors and so much more. “No.”

My reading habits are slowly changing too. I’m no longer turning as many pages; I’m scrolling and pointing instead. I’m creating new experiences over the Internet. I’m adding online literary journals to the “my favorites” tab on my web browser, as well as deleting a few less favorable favorites. Still, there are a few books I will continue purchasing annually. "The Pushcart Anthology" is one of them; I get the best stories, poems, and essays of the small presses without having to subscribe to all those literary journals. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still subscribing to a few journals here and there.

Now I have another must order book, spawned by my changing reading habits—“Best of the Web 2009” published by Dzanc Books in Westland, Michigan. I had preordered it and so far it’s worth every penny. Why, you may ask, am I paying for something I can read for free over the Internet? Let’s just say I’m boosting Michigan’s economy and Dzanc Books is steering me in the direction of some of the best fiction and poetry on the Internet.

Kick ass story from Best of the Web 2009:
“When My Girlfriend Lost the Weight” by Matt Getty from "FRIGG."

“…There I go, turn the page.” Bob Seger

“…There I go again, scroll the page." JR Thumbprints

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.