not from here, are you?

Going Postal Featured at JC's Cavalcade

2012-01-24T11:36:00.000-05:00

My bizarre absurdest tale: Going Postal is being featured this week at the Cavalcade - Check it out here: http://cavalcadeofstars.wordpress.com/2012/01/23/going-postal/#comments

Steamer Trunk Seniors Retire to QC - Sight Unseen

2012-01-21T18:13:00.000-05:00

This retiree couple chose Charlotte - sight unseen to retire - read their wild story here in my piece at the Charlotte Observer.

Knight Foundation & Opera Carolina Provide Gift to Charlotte

2012-01-20T11:45:00.002-05:00

Saturday evening a very special moment will transpire as the curtain rises on Opera Carolina’s Madama Butterfly. First off the sold-out house will witness the splendid set design by sculptor and visual artist Jun Kaneko, who in addition to the set also designed the costuming for this incredibly popular grand opera by Giacomo Puccinni.

Unseen, however, and perhaps even more beautiful than the haunting arias yet to come, are the hours of tireless effort put in by OC Maestro James Meena, his staff and the Knight Foundation, in their generous efforts to allow first-time opera goers to experience Madama Butterfly absolutely free of charge.

When OC announced this very generous public offering late last year the response was so overwhelming that OC felt a responsibility to add a 4rth performance in order to accommodate all the requests.

Through a generous grant from Knight Foundation, newcomers will enjoy a unique evening reserved especially for them,” said James Meena, general director and principal conductor of Opera Carolina. “We are excited that so many in our community will have the opportunity to attend Madama Butterfly, one of the most popular operas of all time – and a perfect first-time experience.”

“Seeing Madama Butterfly is a wonderful reminder of how the arts can enrich our lives,” said Dennis Scholl, Knight Foundation’s vice president/arts. “We hope first time opera goers in Charlotte will take us up on our offer of a free seat and get a taste of all the opera has to offer.”

At a time when the economic resources of our arts institutions are so taxed and increasingly they fight for their very survival, here is an example of how much difference they can and do make in our community.

Thank You OC & the Knight Foundation – your generosity has not gone unnoticed.

*For more info: http://www.operacarolina.org/operas/236/

New Crew @ McColl

2012-01-12T06:16:00.001-05:00

We have a fabulous community of artists here in Charlotte and a very innovative program at the McColl Center for Visual Art.

The McColl is the only concept of its kind in the nation. The center provides studio space, materials, special artist equipment, accommodations and stipends to artists-in-residence from around the globe in addition to supporting locally based affiliate artists in the advancement of creative capacity for artists and the public.

Meet the 8 new McColl Center Artists-in-Residence here in my preview at the Observer.

Cash Crop Featured at The Gantt for MLK

2012-01-11T13:02:00.001-05:00

A very dramatic and powerful exhibit opening for MLK Day at the Harvey B. Gantt Center for African American Arts & Culture here in the Queen City. Read my preview here in the Charlotte Observer.

Naughty or Nice? Tiny tale up at 5 x 5 Fiction

2012-01-09T06:37:00.000-05:00

I'm very pleased to have my 25 word, 5 x 5 story, Naughty or Nice? included in Issue 4 of Angel Zapata 's 5 x 5 Fiction - Check it out here: Issue 4

Express Train Uptown - Up at Charlotte Viewpoint

2012-01-06T06:17:00.000-05:00

Caustic erosion of ordinary ate at Harvey’s fortitude like molten lava spewing from the volcanic average. Express Train Uptown. Photo by my pal Justin Ruckman.

http://www.charlotteviewpoint.org/article/2644/Express-Train-Uptown

The Real Value of the Arts in a Groupon World

2012-01-05T07:27:00.000-05:00

Arts are not like trees in the forest. Without us they don't exist.

Read my rant here in the Charlotte Observer.

Christopher Grant Guest Writes - The Celebrity

2012-01-01T08:28:00.000-05:00

I am pleased to start the New Year out in fine form with some brand new gritty noir from Christopher Grant, the devious mind behind A Twist of Noir and his newest venture where things never end quite the same, Alternate Endings. I have it on very good authority that CG is up to some shenanigans later this year that will no doubt rock the world of those of us who enjoy a darker story - in the meantime enjoy this tale of those who get a might big for their britches.

THE CELEBRITY - CHRISTOPHER GRANT

The word celebrity is reserved for those of us that have attained great fame.

The word fame has an origin that can mean rumor.

The rumors about The Celebrity were all true. Every last one of them.

The thing about the cats and dogs. Yep.

The one about the little kids. Yep.

The one about the blood rituals. Yep.

And the one about the driving around and taking shots at unarmed citizens.

Yep.

And, yet, those were just rumors.

Sweep them under the carpet, the media would say. Or, at least, the media that adored The Celebrity.

They had, after all, created The Celebrity.

It was their duty to protect and defend The Celebrity.

What they had, in fact, created was a monster.

And when the monster started to do things that the media wasn't overly enamored with, well, then, my friends, the media decided that The Celebrity was now The Infamous.

The Infamous, it was said and it was true, had actually sacrificed those kids in those blood rituals that you had heard the rumors about.

The Infamous had, indeed, taken potshots at unarmed citizens just out for a nice Saturday night.

And The Infamous had stuffed firecrackers up the asses of cats and dogs just to watch them explode.

The Infamous had done this and so much more and the media wanted to wash their hands of The Infamous, who had until recently been The Darling Celebrity.

So out with the dirty laundry, the same laundry that was hidden in each and every one of the media's closets.

Out with the sex games The Infamous loved to play.

Out with the drug use The Infamous engaged in.

Out with the public nudity The Infamous had displayed.

Out with the political beliefs The Infamous subscribed to.

Out with the satanic cult The Infamous belonged to.

Out with it all.

Until The Infamous ceased being The Infamous and became The Ill That Society Cannot Tolerate.

And then it became a Jihad.

Stamp out The Ill That Society Cannot Tolerate. Stamp it out before it corrupts our children, before it takes over the planet.

And, in order to do that, the media needed to create another monster that could take the mantle of The Celebrity and disown The Ill That Society Cannot Tolerate, hopefully to banish it to obscurity so that it would never rear its ugly head again.

And media figured they could do this because The Celebrity came a dime a dozen.

And they were right.

Arts Alive Patron

2011-12-29T07:08:00.001-05:00

Here is my pal, Laura Collinge looking smash as usual in a tiny profile of arts patrons here in the big C.

What I Am Most Grateful For

2011-12-25T10:47:00.001-05:00

Gratitude isn’t hard to find.

I send it daily across the pillow

Only to have it return in a river

Reflection yields gifts aplenty

Contentment sublime

Remember today, tonight, and tomorrow

Joy isn’t hard to find

***

To all my virtual pals this holiday - a toast to you: I'm ever grateful for your friendship, it really takes effort to befriend those you may never meet. My life is richer to know you all.

The Dare Nominated for a Pushcart

2011-12-22T06:21:00.001-05:00

I am stunned to find my adolescent memory tale, The Dare, nominated for the prestigious Pushcart by BluePrint Review.

Thanks to Dorothee Lang. Congrats to all the nominees - I am honored and humbled to be included: http://just1m.blogspot.com/2011/12/blueprintreview-nominations-pushcart.htm

10 Financial Tips Heading into the New Year

2011-12-20T15:39:00.001-05:00

I speak with local finance guru’s on how to plan for the new year. Here in the region’s premier lifestyle magazine, SouthPark Magazine.

Memphis Hits Charlotte - Lead talks about race, diets and touring

2011-12-19T17:32:00.000-05:00

Memphis star Bryan Fenkart reflects upon national tour, coming to Charlotte in January

Just in Time for Xmas - Pulp Ink reduced to .99

2011-12-18T07:35:00.000-05:00

Yep - a steal of a deal for this wild anthology featuring my mates and me with tales of grit, noir and crime. Check it out here.

Only Two Weeks Remain to Submit - MICROW SIX

2011-12-17T11:07:00.001-05:00

Only Two Weeks left to submit!! Six is destined to be our finest yet - no small achievement. Don't be left out in the cold for inclusion in our very warm winter edition of MICROW.

See very basic but critically important guidelines here.

Local Playwright Speaks

2011-12-15T07:24:00.000-05:00

Judy Simpson Cook answers Five Questions from me here at the Observer.

Discovery Place on Its Way To National Prominence

2011-12-13T06:15:00.000-05:00

Charlotte is making the national map because of our science museum. Really. Check out my piece at Charlotte Viewpoint on Discovery Place here.

Why We Are the Chosen People

2011-12-08T16:19:00.000-05:00

Read my profile in today's Observer on the phenomenal all male, Jewish a capella group, the Maccabeats.

Then watch this video and you will understand why we are the chosen ones:

My Top 5 Noir for 2011

2011-12-05T13:46:00.000-05:00

Over at DBK right now. Check them out here.

Thanks for Asking!

2011-11-30T13:37:00.001-05:00

Hugh, much too comfortable with the solitude of writing from his back bedroom, dreaded going to yet another faculty dinner.

He loved it that Teri, his wife, was the Assistant Dean of Admissions - with all the little perkies like theater tickets and great parking downtown, it almost made these dinners with the erudite boors bearable.

Tonight’s offing though, bore particularly cruel tidings - the annual gala - he was certain to be cornered by Teri's boss the Dean. He couldn't stand Frank with his pithy comments, $200 rep ties, awful rug and worse breath.

Sure enough he wasn't there 5 minutes when Frank sidled up to him and smugly asked, "Hugh our learned scribe, what are you writing these days?"

Hugh pondered his response momentarily, then came back, "Shit, mostly."

Danny Lyon's Hair is on Fire

2011-11-29T00:35:00.000-05:00

Radical, nonconformist, New Journalism photographer Danny Lyon hits Charlotte Thursday - Don't miss him speak, here is a sample.

This is What I Think Of Your Being Late

2011-11-28T06:41:00.000-05:00

You're busy??

Yeah, me too. Read this.

My Silent Hero

2011-11-27T06:07:00.000-05:00

Charlotte Man seeks, celebrates local, unsung heroes. Check out my feature story in today's Charlotte Observer here.

Brains & Eggs - For Thanksgiving??

2011-11-24T10:39:00.000-05:00

Brains and eggs was enough to give anyone pause, yet that’s what she wanted.

“Are you sure Lena? We can go down to Dianna’s, they have great Huevos.” I sounded whiny and plaintive, even to me.

“Look, you said I could have anything I wanted for breakfast, and that’s what I want.” She pulled on her sweater though was having trouble getting her bony head through the narrow opening. A shock of jet black hair preceded the “thwok ” sound I imagined her head making as it popped through her too tight sweater.

“And you’re going to rustle this feast up for us, but I need to run over to Piggly Wiggly and pick up the brains, you’re sure they have them?” I envisioned me at the meat counter asking some shit-for-brains clerk if they had calf’s brains.

I was starting to get nauseous; my tenuous connection to this girl only mildly enhanced by last night’s aerobics was fading fast.

“Vann, you’re pathetic,” she said, picking up her keys and making a beeline for the door. “It’s a delicacy and you clearly aren’t up for it. You know food habits say quite a bit about a person.”

My appetite returning, I started to get dressed and thought about going to Dianna’s. Before I left, I unfriended Lena from Facebook.

Food habits do indeed say a great deal about a person.

Million Dollar Quartet

2011-11-21T05:23:00.000-05:00

Million Dollar Quartet tells the story of an incredible one night jam session with Elvis, Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis and Carl Perkins.

The show opes in Charlotte on Tuesday and I spoke one on one with the co-author, Colin Escott. Here at Charlotte Viewpoint.

Palate to Palette = Great Art & Great Wine

2011-11-20T00:40:00.000-05:00

Palate to Palette is a way cool concept that pairs fabulous contemporary art with fabulous wines. Who'd a thunk it?

My pals Susan & Sara at the McColl Center for Visual Art here in Charlotte that's who. Read about the big bash in my piece in today's Charlotte Observer here.

That's Sarah on the left and Susan on the right..

Friday Flash - Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged

2011-11-18T15:33:00.001-05:00

They’ll judge me by nightfall, from the safety and warmth of the societal blanket of respectability. Deviant, they’ll say meting out castigation and condemnation and then they’ll return to their own peccadilloes and abhorrent behaviors, made less so as they’re done behind closed doors. Black hearts beat in the vacant cavities of their chests. How can they have compassion for the mirrored image of their own depravity? With those like me locked away, they’ll harbor their children close to their bosom. Who will protect them?

Three Word Wednesday - Can Not! Can So!

2011-11-16T07:41:00.005-05:00

Impetus, Solace & Vindication are the three must use words today in Thom G’s “Three Word Wednesday”

I hope you enjoy my little tragic-comedy.

Can Not! Can So!

There was no solace, no joy found in vindication.

He lay on the sidewalk before us. A bullet squarely between his eyes, his six-year-old son in shock just feet away, huddled in a fetal position wailing. My own child was nearby, wide-eyed and speechless.

Yet he provided the impetus for his own death at my hand. Perhaps I had been a bit too hasty, too harsh in my action.

Instructing his son to tell mine however, that “My dad can beat-up your dad,” was, as it turned out, extremely ill advised.

De-evolution

2011-11-15T16:28:00.001-05:00

Devotion

Stockpiled like cord-wood my commitment to you was unending and void of questioning. You rode it like an express train as it fueled your midnight study sessions, endless weekends in the library and family-less holidays spent in preparation for one exam or another.

Expectations only grew. The coldest winters require the hearth hold its glow continuously. You took and I could no longer give. Abandoned me more quickly than a blind mouse pup from the litter, you consumed all of me, I had none left even for myself.

So much ahead of you now, Doctor. You failed your very first patient.

Animus

Rage hung on me effortlessly. Spanish moss, it blew with the winds of your dispersion. A crack of the smallest order chipped into my hopes and faith, the fissure expanding widely with each crystallizing memory.

Loneliness

Your tears in my eyes bring now relief. Void and emptiness accompany me, twin seracs chilling me in between the covers in our bed. It isn’t me I am crying for. It isn’t you either. It’s us.

Regret

What is regret if not the most wasted of human emotions? It infuses logic into our thinking. As if we can make a rational decision with the heat of joy firing in our veins. Who ever thinks of regret in times of splendor and in the wonder of the moment? Regret is the lament of old men, the cynical retort of hindsight. It is the instant replay of dangerous decisions. You can have it.

Regret will never find a home with me.

Digging into history..

2011-11-13T06:03:00.000-05:00

Armchair historian Walter Klein wants to set the record straight on Mec Dec, the other Declaration of Independence, once and for all. Read my piece here in the Observer.

#Friday Flash - Five Minutes

2011-11-11T07:22:00.000-05:00

Campfires twirl like circus rides in my glass. They glow all amber and honeyed hitting the back of my tongue and skirting my molars.

How many hours in one lifetime can the same five minutes be relived?

Dulled by yesterday, I ponder that question. I do love the sound melted ice cubes make in my glass. Voided and hollow, I suck them clean.

Save Me

2011-11-09T19:36:00.000-05:00

I’m falling in her mind. In her mind I’m flailing and falling, never landing, just falling. I’m screaming cries unheard. She squints the squint of one whose grown tiresome of small children pulling at her dress though her children are grown and gone and don’t write, ever.

She hates them.

Abhors the day she brought each into the world.

It was she who was breached in this selfless act.

This place in her mind where I’ve gone is used infrequently. She’s collected me without warning and deposited me in her cluttered dustbin of cranial detritus. She keeps all manner of oddities there. Memories of dogs that almost bit her and boyfriends that didn’t come but pretended to. Stray flecks of lint and the crust from her eyes after her dreamless sleep.

She rubs her eyes while sitting on the toilet for her first shit of the morning. She’ll likely shit three or four more times before lunch while I flail valiantly in her mind.

I fall with increasing velocity.

Stretching my neck out with a Munch-like hollowed O pursed upon my lips, I feel the pain of absence of pain. I ache in anticipation. Falling in her mind through eternity’s limbo, grotesque and misshapen my predicament amuses her.

Save me.

Currying Favor

2011-11-04T16:11:00.000-04:00

What did you know about any of it? That smell, the smell you said reminded you of the first time. You said it carried you off to the row house with the shag carpeting that made our toes feel funny.

What was it about that time in our lives? Mom was so cool back then, no crying jags and those tiny lines hadn’t formed around her mouth yet. Her skin was buttery then and she still loved to bake every day.

When we came home from school and she gave us those big hugs, her hair smelled like yeast rolls. You used to make me laugh with that thing you did with your hair, the French twist and all pulled back in a bun like those teachers at Sunday school.

What happened to us? What happened to you? When Mom got sick and Dad started drinking again, why did you wait for me to step in? You’re the oldest; it was your responsibility to see that we had more to eat than TV dinners. You knew I was struggling at school, you knew I didn’t have the fortitude that you did.

How can you remind me now of those smells and the nights that I woke up with the sheets all wet. You knew it wasn’t my fault but you kept on me, kept nagging in Mom’s place. You were the Mom and the Dad, well you’re not now.

You’re not either.

So just let me figure it out. You’re not even the smartest even though they said you were. If you were why are you coming back asking me for help?

My soul roils at the troubles we caused them. I don’t need your forgiveness, you need mine.

IF LOVE IS A RED DRESS - HANG ME IN RAGS

2011-10-31T08:18:00.000-04:00

Perhaps you should rest now Del. Wearied bones make for weighty ascent.

Rest? I don’t think I’m up for any rest just now. What difference would it make? My mind won’t stop racing. Her vision will never escape my memory. So at peace, so much at ease. Her pallor shone bright against the ruby redness of her dress.

There’s no point in replaying those events over and over, Del. I implore you - put your focus forward. Making peace with the past will allow for a much better transition. You’ll be forgiven. Acceptance is the first step.

Forgiveness offers no absolution. There is no amnesty for the likes of me. I accept nothing. Whoever accepted me? She didn’t accept me. I was simply a vehicle for her. She saw my vulnerability and worked to exploit me. I trusted her. I let her into my soul, she saw my essence and being, she touched my core. I felt alive and then. Then…

Yes Del? What happened then?

Was it theater? I don’t know for certain. Her gaze fell upon my face as the curtain drops at the end of an act. With certainty and definition. She lay bare before me and asked me to take her. She was not brave enough to do it herself so she asked me to do it for her. What could I do? How could I say no? I was under her spell at that point.

You didn’t mean to harm her?

Harm? Harm? I tried to push her away but she came back to like a letter with insufficient postage. Was truncating her torment harm? Was arresting her daily demons harm? Was swathing her in the elegance of the dress rouge harmful? I loved her. I was willing to do anything for her. When I breathed I took in her womanhood and it filled me with life anew. I never knew such a feeling until I met her. I knew extinguishing her light would befall me with darkness. It was worth it. It was so very right. Why can’t anyone see that?

But Del, why did you take her life?

Wasn’t she murdered when at nine she was raped by her stepfather? Wasn’t she again murdered when two years later the court awarded her custody to the very same monster after her mother died? If murder is taking a life, then she was murdered a thousand times over the next 15 years until she met me. The courts, the schools, her series of ‘custodians’ – all murderous and soul sucking leaches. I was a giver of life, eternal life and salvation. I was only too glad to sacrifice my life for her.

Are you hungry? I can arrange for anything if you’d like.

I’ll never taste sweetness again. It all is tasteless, gray and cast without succor. I want nothing. I want to waltz into the void. I want it to feel the absence, feel the emptiness, and be surrounded by the nocturne. Is that what it’s like, Father?

It’s glorious if you accept Him, Del. That is the only thing I’m sure of. Won’t you accept Him, my son, and free yourself of this burden?

No Father, I can’t turn there for consolation. I’ll find it with her. I’ll hang the way she hung. I’ll die the way she died. I’ll traverse the passage with lightness. We’ll embrace in the beyond. I’ll bathe with her in her red dress, we’ll find eternity together. I’m ready now Father, we can go.

Yes Del, may the Lord have mercy upon you.

***

Guard! Guard! The prisoner is ready.

>Language>Place Blog Carnival Anniversary!

2011-10-28T06:29:00.000-04:00

The Anniversary Issue! 12 months of literary goodness and we have circled the globe with exotic hosts! back to where it all started with this fine edition from Dorothee Lang: http://virtual-notes.blogspot.com/2011/10/language-place-11-streets-signs.html

Back For Halloween- ORANGE DOT!!

2011-10-27T09:03:00.001-04:00

Suburbia. 4 a.m. Your morning paper delivery guy is out. He's not alone.

Orange Dot

by Michael J.Solender

Ours is a typical suburban housing development with mailboxes affixed to sturdy posts, standing solitary sentry at the end of our drive. As I retrieved the mail the other day, I noticed a reflective green dot, about the size of a quarter, had been placed on the post just below the mailbox. Puzzled, I wondered for just a moment what its purpose might be and then promptly thought nothing more of it.

The following morning at an hour that is only experienced awakened once daily by less industrious types than my wife and me, I noted on our walk around the neighborhood that the paper delivery guy was stopping at each box with a green dot and slipping the morning journal inside the protective sleeve below.

“Ha the green dot tells the paper guy where to deliver – ingenious.” I exclaimed to my wife who kept her rhythm and focus on outpacing me as we came to a nasty hill.

“What’s the orange dot for then?” she quizzed.

Sure enough, I saw that about every 5th post had an orange reflective dot. I wondered if it was for some national journal or weekend delivery only.

“We don’t have an orange dot, I’m not exactly sure.” No sooner were the words out of my mouth than we were passed by a circular object resembling a large inner tube, racing past us only inches from the ground.

It was glowing bright orange and had a tiny periscope type proboscis extending from its front surface. A pulsing light fixed on the first post encountered with an orange dot on the mail post. The craft stopped for a moment and then within seconds, was hovering in front of the door of the house with the offending dot.

My wife and I were panicked beyond speechless and watched in abject terror as small, orange glowing snakes emerged from the craft by the dozen. They began silently burrowing into the door and under the window frames. The craft whisked on to the next home with an orange dot.

I had seen enough, I grabbed my wife’s elbow and we quickly walked in the other direction towards our house. For 5 minutes neither of us spoke.

“What should we do?” My wife was crying.

“What can we do, the police won’t believe it, and I saw it and I don’t believe it.”

“But what was it, what did we see?”

“Sweetie, I can’t explain it and don’t want to even try. Freaky things happen in this world. I say we forget it, don’t discuss with anyone and just go on about our business.” I was trying to be pragmatic.

I had enough drama in my life and didn’t need any more.

“Ok, that’s done then.” I said, “I’ll make some coffee.”

It was now 5:00 a.m. and we both needed a jolt of something.

“I’ll get the paper.” My wife volunteered.

I began grinding the beans and the aroma of my $30.00 per pound Geisha beans began to work their magic before I could even brew them. What the hell was taking her I thought, she’s been out there for five minutes.

I walked out onto the porch and saw my wife halfway down the drive. She was sobbing and her entire body was heaving convulsively. I raced up to her.

“What is it hon?”

She pointed at our mailbox and just below the green reflective dot I had noticed yesterday was another similarly shaped, but distinctly orange dot.

“Orange dot,” was all she could say.

Opera Carolina Shows Fire With Il Trovatore

2011-10-24T12:10:00.001-04:00

A fine season debut for OC - read my review here.

MICROW Winter #6 - Subs open 11/1

2011-10-21T10:25:00.001-04:00

MICROW

Winter #6

Submission Period: November 1, 2011 through January 1, 2012 – target publication date: February 1, 2012

Submit to: microw@fullofcrow.com

Theme: Transport

Consideration will only be given to submissions that follow very simple, but important guidelines for this special edition.

All Submissions: MUST state in less than 50 words how their submission relates to the theme of: Transport.

Prose: 1000 words or less, single submission only.

Poetry: Maximum submission of 3 poems.

Images: Multiple submissions allowed - preference to black & white photography, pen and ink, charcoal sketches and mixed media imagery.

All submissions will receive acknowledgement within one week of submission. Final selections will be communicated in January with publication in February. If you cannot wait that long, do not submit as we are NOT interested in work submitted elsewhere or previously published. We want work specifically created for this theme.

Home Is Where Your Hat Is

2011-10-17T05:11:00.000-04:00

What Charlotte isn't

In case you want to know..

Medium Rare

2011-10-14T16:17:00.000-04:00

A limp-dicked, shriveled up panty-waist he was, but our business dealings inextricably linked us together.

His face was plastered all over the newspaper, the headline screaming “Serial Killer Unmasked!!”

His ascent and corresponding plummet was the stuff that kept Hollywood screenwriters working overtime.

Chair and CEO of Tentronix Infosystems, he’d built a billion dollar company in two years from scratch off a $500 loan I’d given him. We were rolling in it and life was grand, or so I thought.

When he told me he “had a taste for the ladies” how was I to know he meant barbequed?

Boring Vacation Photos

2011-10-13T16:48:00.002-04:00

Here is round one of my vacation photos from Austria and Hungary, more on the way and an entire really boring daily travelogue!

http://s744.photobucket.com/albums/xx83/michaeljsolender/ViennaBudapest2011/?albumview=slideshow

Churn

2011-10-10T00:56:00.000-04:00

She lie in bed, hours since retiring, churning and tossing fitfully in the black dark arid night air that sank in through the open window. The crickets did not drown out the recurring chorus from the mornings misdeeds that rattled in her heavy, bony head. She felt truly sorry... she was sorry... but the words that leaped from her lips not in anger but with vengeance had found their target squarely. Wounded and shocked at the same time he immediately retreated to the extra bedroom and shut the door tightly; she heard his tears steadily falling, each taking another drop of what little affection was left for her. Now, she pitched and flopped, her bed cold in the hot air without him. Morning would not bring her relief and she knew this, she covered her ears to make it stop hurting.

Futures Past

2011-10-08T00:52:00.000-04:00

Scaling tiger’s nests
searching pasts
for future meanings.
Owning not
of burdens,
indentured still.
Soundly mute while
speaking clearly,
emboldened by the passing day.
Tethered aspirations yield
flights, flames
and candies.
Unadorned they talk
with listeners,
calloused hands are journey worn.

It's You Not Me

2011-10-04T00:49:00.004-04:00

You see me. You touch me. You wash over me.

Yet you can’t know me. How could you know where I am at my most vulnerable when the very receptors that would provide that insight remain dormant and, like the 6 year battery in my snow covered car, unable to hold a charge?

How could you discover that it wasn’t that I wanted to be somewhere, anywhere else, but rather that I couldn’t be here with you in your not knowing state?

You hear me. You want me. You scare me.

Brood is what you do best and stew, consumed with what’s next and not what is. You follow my eyes as they turn inward and read from my secret text in languages I will never understand. The learning comes and together we take what sweeps off the undusted window sills off the stacks in our library.

You will me. You won’t me. You fear me.

You have never felt comfort with the essence of you. It is as if allowed to be yourself, naked and barren, void of your self implanted conflict, you would wither and recede into the winter. You know yourself only through me and the others that want to pull from you, take from you and have most of you.

You are me. You aren’t me. You consume me.

Your work is you; it does not embody, but becomes you. It fulfils you, I’m certain and it fuels your dreams for more that can be accomplished. You do know this one thing about me, that I admire your work. It inspires me to get closer to you and have all of everything about you become me.

You found me. You lost me. You weep for me.

Check Out The New 50th Anniversary Danse Macabre!

2011-10-02T00:06:00.003-04:00

AHC back from his brush with ..we won't go there has just published the 50th anniversary Danse Macabre one of my favorite literary journals.

I am oh so pleased to have my southern epic, Inseparable Bond , published on the pages of this special edition. Thanks Adam.

Broken Vase

2011-09-29T00:46:00.000-04:00

In twenty years of marriage I’ve seen my wife cry 3 times.

Once was when we were in Vegas on layover from L.A., I told her I thought we should go to the Elvis Chapel and get remarried.

The second was when she saw the neighbor’s dog get hit by the recycle truck in our alley.

She cried the third time when during an earthquake last year, a Limoges vase that my mother bought us in Paris years ago fell off a shelf and broke into tiny shards and splinters. She never liked my mother but she loved that vase.

Giving Back - A Tour de Force

2011-09-26T01:52:00.000-04:00

Valaida Fullwood and Charles W. Thomas' new book, Giving Back; A Tribute to Generations of African American Philanthropists is a remarkable achievement. Read my preview here at Charlotte Viewpoint.

History, Neighbors Make Good Mix

2011-09-25T06:34:00.001-04:00

Historic Charlotte neighborhood Wesley Heights celebrates their 100 year anniversary. Read my piece covering this cool event here in the Charlotte Observer.

ONE MORE GOOD HAND

2011-09-22T08:00:00.002-04:00

Yellowed ceiling tiles stained with years of nicotine practically dripped on me as I lay on my back and lent my own contribution to the layers of grime, blowing smoke rings from my Camel up towards the low overhang. My head was flat and dull with an ache I'd experienced almost daily after too much Mad Dog and not enough caffeine. I just need one more chance with the deck. One more hand.

I could make out the blue neon sign four stories below the dive I currently inhabited as its pulsing and irritating off/on/off/on never-ending dance extolled the virtues of a Jazz parlor I had a vague familiarity with - Birdland.

I might have even been there last night, I'm not sure. It's hazy like most of my memories of late. Like who I owe money to and how much. It's easier to forget and easier still to never make a point of remembering in the first place. Funny, when people owe me some dough, I can't get their markers out of my mind. But when it's the other way around, I'm just as happy to never see the bums again.

It's been like that of late. One bad beat after another. I used to hold all the cards, kick some ass, be rolling in it and buying the Crystal at Birdland for all my special ladies. Now I can't get in without a steep cover and my markers are no good in the game in the back. Guys with last names ending in vowels threaten to break my legs and worse.

One more good streak, even one more great hand, and I'm back on top.

Last night must have been a real pisser. I just can't remember for the life of me.

So here I lay, 2:00 A.M., on my back in room 457 at the Continental Arms. Rooms by the hour.

Hiding from my debtors. Trying to figure out my comeback. My back is wet, pasted to the sheets. But it's not hot, ferchrissakes, it's January in Chicago; it's freeking freezing.

No, the wetness soaking the bed is blood. Lots of it, too.

The blonde in between the sheets next to me is quite dead.

There is a bullet between her eyes I'm quite sure was meant for me. I'm trying to figure out a way out of this mess as I light up another smoke.

My head still aches. The Birdland sign still throbs.

I'm gonna need more than one good hand.

Three Word Wednesday - Grey Dawn

2011-09-21T08:06:00.001-04:00

Thanks to ThomG for the 3WW challenge this week: Yawn, dull, & race

Grey Dawn

A yawning chasm separated us.

Of course I was not like any of the others, not of superior race mind you, just superior intellect.

They required precision and precision they would receive. I alone was charged with arming the warheads.

Their minds dulled by the tedium of responding to “critical” text messages, they thought more with their thumbs than their brains

Millennium from now those who come after us will wonder what triggered the destruction.

I’ll leave them a clue, just one tiny clue.

Bearden Inspires Charlotte

2011-09-20T00:56:00.000-04:00

All things Romare Bearden roar into high gear in the QC. Read my homage to our native son here at Charlotte Viewpoint.

Your Horoscope

2011-09-19T06:09:00.003-04:00

Your Horoscope

Your Birthday Today

A most inauspicious year is in store for you.
Consider sitting this one out.
If you must expose yourself, do so
in a way where you can easily affix
blame to others. Inner peace eludes you.

Capricorn (Dec. 22-Jan. 19)

Relatives cast a suspicious eye towards
your extremely modest success. Motives will be questioned
by those most close to you. Continue to shirk responsibility
but in a way that isn’t easily questioned.

Aquarius (Jan. 20 – Feb 18)

Finally the monkey is off your back. Make a big purchase today
regardless of your ability to pay. You deserve rewards in spite
of what others say.

Pisces (Feb. 19-March 20)

Today shows tremendous promise. Just not for you.
Try a different excuse when calling out sick. Coworkers are
wise to you.

Aries (March 21-April 19)

Have you been putting off
an important decision or project?
Continue procrastination beyond
deadline and then foist issue upon
spouse or lover. Or both.

Taurus (April 20-May20)

Look for hidden meaning from
talking head pundit. Hint: He’s on FOX
and cries. A lot. Heed his advice and buy his book.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

Make the first move. Don’t wait for a signal.
Leap, don’t bother looking. Avoid action at grave peril.

Cancer (June 21-July 22)

You finally catch a break. Double down and
take the risk you’ve been avoiding.
People in your position don’t
have much to lose.

Leo (July 23-Aug. 22)

Clean your refrigerator.
Do it now.
Really.

Virgo ( August 23-Sept. 22)

Doubt consumes you.
Maybe it should.
Maybe it should not.
Libra (Sept 23-October 22)You are inspired
by an ingenious plan.
Inspiration continues
to frighten you. Wait
until your are certain.

Scorpio (Oct. 23 – Nov. 21)

Today is well suited
for mating
with others.
People.
Tests prove negative.

Sagittarius (Nov.22 – Dec. 21)

Listen to the voices
inside your head.
They speak to you
for a reason.
Now is not the time for debate.

Numerology

2011-09-15T04:48:00.002-04:00

I dropped the tablet containing the Ten Commandments.
It shattered into nine tiny pieces.
Eight people came to my assistance.
It was the seventh day of the month.
I had a sixth sense about the moment.
In five minutes we had reassembled the dictum.
Four millennium of beliefs fragmented.
Three tribes of Moses documented the word of God.
The words, they seemed directed at only two.
One day, this day, - I learned what it all meant.

My 1st Suit - Building Self Esteem

2011-09-11T02:12:00.000-04:00

A Charlotte man with a big idea is inspiring young men and helping them gain self confidence through a character development program and custom made threads. Read my story on him here, in the Charlotte Observer.

For Me & Him - Up at Camroc Press Review

2011-09-07T05:45:00.000-04:00

My tiny short "For Me and Him" is up over at Camroc Press Review today. Thanks to Barry Basden for featuring my work.

Urban Ministries Provide Sense of Purpose

2011-09-04T01:06:00.000-04:00

Urban Ministries provide so much more than meals and referrals for our city's homeless - they nourish their souls as well. Check out this innovative photography program in a piece I wrote for the Charlotte Observer here.

Button Up

2011-09-03T01:05:00.002-04:00

Who's got the button? Nikki Mueller - that's who. Check her out in my piece in the Observer here.

Their Next

2011-09-02T22:18:00.000-04:00

In the past 36 hours the handful of grainy dust and ash in the moss-colored urn had been through three continents, six airport screenings, and countless train cars before it became the object of prolonged discussion at its last border crossing. Despite the language barrier, he convinced the guard at the Himalayan border town of Jaigaon that letting him and the urn into the village of Phuntsholing would in no way jeopardize the national security of their tiny Bhutanese democracy.

Purpose ate at him, burning hot for weeks since she had gone. He had promised he would return with her when the time came, but his intention was to fulfill that promise by preceding her in death. Now he was a courier of sorts, the round and nondescript orb a silent and lightweight escort in his rucksack. Neither of them was Buddhist, but what they had realized in this valley so many years ago had never left, and they wished they never had either.

Their final transport was a rusted and tired Range Rover. He sat in the backseat as it climbed higher into Paro, a shot suspension amplifying each rut and pothole. They had once both been supplicants to the pitching and lurching of this road. If you could call it that, she had said, with a smile. He knew the lid was secure, but held the rucksack tight at his side regardless.

He hated that she couldn’t see it again—the prayer flags flying from every outcropping, the vistas of blooming poppies she had made their driver stop so many times for. The terrain now brought him no comfort; he took in the view with jaded eyes, buried memories under grinding gears, the car downshifting, his driver cursing the washed out parts of the road. On nearly every switchback small children would wave as he passed, but his hand stayed always against his side.

Each pass yielded more waterfalls and even rarer animals. Thick horns of wooly tahr peeking over boulders. Danfe pheasants nearly iridescent, a rainbow of greens and blues. He dropped his dusty and threadbare knapsack at the tea-house and with her in hand started the climb at 7000 feet. It would be three thousand more to reach the Tiger's nest—the venerated monastery of Taktsang.

Four hours later he was drenched in sweat, his shirt pasted in a thick mass to his back and a wicked chafe where his briefs cut into his thigh. The climb had been arduous the first time, now it bordered on cruel. Due to tiger flies and wasps, he stopped only a few seconds at a time, for water from his canteen and to tell her small things—what he saw, where she was.

The base of the monastery before him, he let her go into a warm updraft and she cascaded out and up, never falling as she rode the tiger into her next. His heart bursting, he would cry only later, for her and himself, on his way back to where he had come from. He was on his next too.

Fighter

2011-08-30T14:25:00.000-04:00

He was 15 years old again. Lean and lithe, from a distance he could easily be mistaken as a ballet troupe member. He moved with feline precision, weight forward on the balls of his feet.

Upon closer inspection he actually appeared even younger, his freckles kissed by the July sun coupled with the slight gap in his front teeth led those that saw him that summer afternoon to believe he was years away from driving a car or even shaving.

Sara was crestfallen. I approached her straight on and she didn’t even see me enter the room.

The stark and overly antiseptic hospital room would undoubtedly mark my dad’s final hours. The evening’s silence punctuated by the hissing of the ventilator attached to my father.

“How is he?” I asked, knowing I didn’t want to hear the answer.

“He’s fighting. I’m figuring he knew you’d come and he wants to be certain to get one final dig in.”

Sara, my sister and best friend had summed up in one sentence my relationship with my father. Always at odds with me no matter the issue. We’d come to an accommodation in the past few years where we agreed to disagree except when the issues were too weighty and then, respectfully we went at it.

Our constant debate almost obscured the love and admiration we had for each other. Neither of us would allow for that and when we though others weren’t looking we would bear hug each other, laugh out loud and even enjoy a spirited cribbage match.

“Thank god Mom isn’t alive to see him like this. Sara why don’t you go home and I’ll sit with him for a while?”

“The doctors don’t seem to think it will be long, perhaps before the day is out, I’ll stay. Come sit by me Marty and talk to him, let him know you are there.”

Those youthful good looks would be his passport to a life filled mostly with joys, though one disappointment would follow him for years until he finally would let it go. He never let on that she had hurt him. Young boys shouldn’t place so much emphasis on what their mothers think, though when she told him she had wished he’d been born a girl he couldn’t help but be crushed.

It didn’t matter now. He was back on stage. Della Case was in the wings waiting on her cue. The applause that came an hour later left him euphoric.

His life was a series of curtain calls. He never tired of the accolades.

The stage suddenly went dark.

He was 15 again.

Bielski Brothers Legacy Comes to Charlotte

2011-08-28T00:24:00.000-04:00

Cousins Ruth Bielski Ehrreich & Assi Weinstein were in Charlotte last week to promote the upcoming Violins of Hope project.

The women are carrying forward the legacy of their fathers, the Bielski Brothers, who led a group of Jewish partisans during World War II through the forests of Belarus over the course of three rugged years - the Hollywood film Defiance was made documenting their story.

I had an exclusive interview with them and profile their thoughts and observations here in the Charlotte Observer.

Secrets #fridayflash

2011-08-26T02:33:00.000-04:00

Holding the minute kernel of knowledge in abeyance all these years was the key to Olaf’s power over us. We did not abdicate; we wouldn’t relent in an abrupt decision. Our servitude was neither reluctant, nor involuntary. The power he wielded wafted over us like smoke filling a small chamber. Staggering in his omniscience, he spoke in thundering tones, “The secrets,” he said, “will soon be revealed.”

And indeed they were.

Engage Charlotte connects young professionals

2011-08-24T21:42:00.000-04:00

Are you engaged? Engage Charlotte is a vehicle for young professionals to connect to the QC.

Check out my piece in Charlotte Viewpoint here.

My Interview Published in The Forward

2011-08-22T00:02:00.002-04:00

This past April I had an opportunity to interview the 2004 Nobel Laureate in Chemistry, Dr. Aaron Ciechanover.

My interview was picked up by the Jewish Daily Forward, the largest and oldest Jewish daily newspaper in the U.S., based out of New York City, the paper is distributed natinwide.

I am thrilled to have it featured here: http://www.forward.com/articles/141657/

Late Movie Fridays

2011-08-21T01:32:00.000-04:00

When my pals, Copez & Emiene Wright couldn't find late night haps in the QC, they took matters into their own hands. Read my piece here in Sunday's Observer.

Her Smile @ Eaten Alive

2011-08-20T07:27:00.000-04:00

My Zombieliscious tale, Her Smile is gracing the online page over at Christopher Grant's new & dark house of horror - enjoy it here.

In Their Company #fridayflash

2011-08-19T22:06:00.000-04:00

Lissette spun the desk-top globe on its axis watching continents blur into oceans. She jabbed her index finger into a land mass, stopping the globe and determining her focus for the evening’s slumber.

Not particularly situated financially though intrepid in her nature, Lissette had developed the uncanny ability to travel to distant lands in her dreams. This talent allowed her to escape the messy inconvenience of passports, the TSA, and deep vein thrombosis she might encounter on overseas flights. Tonight she had landed near Lake Baikal, just outside of Irkutsk, once know as the “Paris” of Siberia.

The houses had pointed roofs so the snow could slide off in the winter, and they kept blankets and extra twigs in the rafters. The tiny dachas served as summer cottages for Moscow’s elite who sought the cooling clime during July and August. The winter months were left for the caretakers who kept watch and eked out a living fishing in the largest fresh water lake in the world. Baikal had 10% of the world’s fresh water and at depths of over 3 miles in places, it never froze no matter how cold it got.Lissette arrived to the warming welcome of the family; Astoyan. Petra and Gregor Astoyan were without child and took in the coquettish Lissette as if she were their own. Each morning they took out three frozen whole fish, wrapped in plastic, and each morning they ground coffee beans by hand, the aroma was the most comforting thing in this world.

Lissette quickly fell into the hard, but satisfying Siberian life. She fished with Gregor and prepared humble yet hearty meals with Petra. This was her kind of travel, with and amongst the real people.

When she awoke, she had a strange craving for a double espresso shot and a bagel with lox.

PULP INK Now Availiable

2011-08-15T06:30:00.000-04:00

One of the finest collections of short Pulp & Noir ever assembled -is now available for purchase at only pennies per story - Featuring: Reed Farrel Coleman, Jodi MacArthur, AJ Hayes, Sandra Seamans, Eric Beetner, Allan Guthrie, Matthew C Funk, Nigel Bird, Paul D Brazill,Chris F Holm, David Cranmer, Patti Abbott, Naomi Johnson, Ian Ayris, Gary Phillips, Chris Rhatigan, Richard Godwin, Jim Harrington,Kate Horsley,Hilary Davidson, Jason Duke, Jimmy Callaway, and Matt Lavin.

There is even one in there from me!

Only $2.99 at Amazon - What are you waiting for??

TTEDxCharlotte Inspires Action

2011-08-14T01:55:00.000-04:00

Some very cool peeps and ideas taking place at TEDxCharlotte - Read my piece in the Charlotte Observer to discover how big ideas take shape.

Miami Poet Has Words Live In Charlotte

2011-08-12T05:25:00.001-04:00

P. Scott Cunningham is a cool cat who has his way with words. Read how The McColl Center for Visual Art showcases this literary artist in Charlotte. Here in my piece at Charlotte Viewpoint.

Wasabi Boy

2011-08-10T07:00:00.000-04:00

I hated being his apprentice, his lackey relegated to putting dabs of wasabi on his pretty-as-a-painting plates of sushi. The knife is everything he would say, the knife, always the knife. He was a master and scoffed at my clumsy attempts to emulate his proficiency with toro, aji-no-tataki, and sawara. My sahshimi and nigiri came out mangled and un-servable. Sushi chefs live by their knife skills he yelled at me constantly. He found out they die by them too as I plunged my ceramic blade into his chest.

Wife Beater T

2011-08-09T10:33:00.001-04:00

Thuds shudder over my shoulder, trumpeting out the front windows, opened to let the breeze in not family business out. My help with dinner wasn't enough,he pushed his
plate away and Mama stood up quickly, my signal to go play outside.

Neighbor kids knew better than to play in front of our house, Daddy had seen to that. Old man Genovese clucked his tongue, goose-like when he saw me crumple onto the porch.

The low bass gave way to dry tears, long since parched from their source.

I inhaled Daddy's rage as he came out the front door on his way to McDougal's, his wife beater T-shirt stained and sweaty, Mama calling me in to help with dishes.

Back Alley Film Series Set To Mess Up Your Mind

2011-08-08T05:00:00.003-04:00

So says BAFS Director, Jay Morong. Read my profile of this quirky, off beat series here at Charlotte Viewpoint.

Perfect Pizza is Quest for this Master Chef

2011-08-07T01:25:00.000-04:00

Follow Celebrity Chef Peter Reinhart as he sets off in search of the perfect pizza. Here in my story at the Charlotte Observer.

The New Face of Philanthropy

2011-08-06T22:28:00.001-04:00

Circle de Luz is a wonderful example of the new face of philanthropy in our community - these women show how a small commitment can make a huge difference in the lives of others.

Read my story here in the Charlotte Observer.

There But Gone

2011-08-05T14:43:00.000-04:00

The day room was pleasant enough, it held a calendar showing the day of the week, date, month and season using cut out pictures that would be at home in an elementary classroom.

A piano collected dust and a tabby cat brushed up against my leg asking to be stroked.

My eyes studied the small group of seniors lost not in thought but in their individual prisons.

Must my own fate be foreshadowed by my mother’s vacant stare?

The Aide asked me simply: “Is your mother here, with us? “

“No,” I said softly, “She left years ago.”

Confined

2011-08-04T15:26:00.000-04:00

His loss of freedom wasn't that bad, life in the jewelery box sized cell was structured, dependable, routine and above all, predictable. He should have known they would frown on cannibalism. Life on the outside was too limitless, too cavernous. Prison was really not at all confining, in fact he began to develop a certain affection for his cell-mate. He wasn't sure but felt there was a deliciousness about him. He'd find out for certain soon enough.

The Bargain

2011-08-03T16:13:00.002-04:00

At precisely 7 p.m. each evening the words stopped flowing from his pencil. The lead continued to make marks on the page, but it was pure gibberish. Alarmed on that first evening, two weeks ago, he rushed to open up Word and begin typing on his PC, gibberish.

His daughter, barely three, sensing the timing began to giggle and reached up in order for him to hold her, which he did willingly.

The devil wanted his soul and eternal damnation for a best seller. Saint Peter had agreed to quality time with his family each and every day.

The Dare up at Blue Print Review

2011-08-01T14:14:00.001-04:00

My pal Dorothee Lang has a fabulous new issue of Blue Print Review in slow release this month. the themed issue centers on "challenges" and features my piece The Dare along side the likes of Susan Gibb, Julia Davies, Steve Wing and a host of other fine writers. Be sure to check it out!

Judge Not, Lest Ye Be Judged

2011-07-31T15:25:00.003-04:00

County Squabble Over Mental Health Leaves Community In Peril

2011-07-30T06:49:00.000-04:00

The situation in Charlotte could happen in your community as well. Here is my take on what needs to be done.

Testicles Put Brakes on SC Woman's Joyride

2011-07-29T16:28:00.001-04:00

Only in the South. Truth IS stranger than fiction. Read all about it here in my piece at Like the Dew, Journal of Southern Culture & Politics.

RUNNING WITH THE IRON ROOSTER

2011-07-28T21:27:00.000-04:00

I didn't much fancy losing either of my pinkies to Toshi, the Yakuza owner of my $30,000 gambling markers.

"I need a big favor, pal-sie," Toshi told me. "My face is too familiar at Russian customs right now and I need to get some cargo to Irkutsk. You take care of this for me, and you're debt-free, plus you get a special bonus."

It didn't occur to me to ask what the three jump drives Toshi handed me contained. I simply agreed. Nor did I argue when he told me I wouldn't be flying but rather taking the train, the Trans-Siberian from Khabarovsk to Irkutsk.

*

Sixteen hours later, I was in a tourist berth on the Rossiya, jerking out of the murky, charmless Khabarovsk station with the tiny jump drives in the money belt tucked inside my baggy drawers.

Several hours in, an earsplitting scream interrupted the rhythmic chukka-chukka of the train and jarred me from the daydream hypnosis I had willingly yielded to. I looked to the end of the car at the bench below the samovar and saw our provodnita, the car attendant, was alternatively screaming and laughing hysterically. An amorous Buryat was practically sitting in her lap and gnawing on her ear, his right hand buried deep between her legs.

I needed some cigarettes and could tell by the thirty minute interval on the schedule that Belogorsk would offer more than an isolated platform where mail and other freight would be offloaded from the rear cars of the Iron Rooster.

At the station, the morning sun half illuminated the platform which was filled with babushka-clad, gap-toothed ladies in heavy woolen coats. I dipped into my money belt for a few rubles to pay for my cigarettes and began to panic when I realized one of the jump drives I had been entrusted to deliver was missing.

The panic that had turned to terror when I thought I'd lost one of Toshi's Irkutsk-bound jump drives subsided when I realized the missing data receptacle had embedded itself into the lining of my money belt. Yakuza boys don't take kindly to couriers who fail to discharge their duties. My pinkies on each hand feeling momentarily secure, I let myself fade to sleep upon re-boarding.

The train pitched as it arrested coming into Magdagachy. I got off for a quick smoke and saw an uncharacteristically stylish woman of about thirty getting into one of the First Class compartments. She was sable sleek in her tight designer jeans, oversized shades and chestnut brown and white fur. She was carrying a large Gucci bag.

An hour later, I caught my foot on the ill-designed connector bridge between rail cars and hurled forward only to have my fall broken by landing smack into the arms and billowy bosom of the cream-colored woman I had seen board the train. She half laughed and mumbled something in Russian then quickly realized I was American. "You're not too fleet of foot are you?" she asked in flawless English.

"Please let me make it up to you with a drink in the lounge car?" I asked, cringing at my own lame come on but hoping nonetheless she'd agree.

"I don't like the view there," she purred. "Come up to my car. I'm very bored and want to practice my English."

Discretely feeling at my money belt to make sure my contraband was still safely in place, I said, "I'd be delighted, my name is Jason, Jason Frazier."

"I'm Lyudmila." Her eyes darted furtively up and down my disheveled form. I'm sure I was a sight. I hadn't planned on chasing skirt on this trip, but opportunity was knocking.

The beefy provodnita who had shooed me away in my repeated earlier attempts to penetrate the First Class cars was now serving me tea with milk and honey in Lyudmila's private berth. It was perfectly appointed with fresh tulips, crisp table linen, assorted tinned shortbread and chocolates. Her laptop was open on the fold-down table, the tubular screen saver making exotic geometric designs in perfect rhythm to voice of the chucking train.

"I must excuse myself for a moment," Lyudmila informed me an hour and three cups of tea into our conversation. "I need to pee."

The content of the jump drives in my money belt had not entered my consciousness for almost a week. My curiosity suddenly awakened, I impulsively thrust one of the drives into the USB port on Lyudmila's laptop just as she was returning to the curtain drawn berth.

Lyudmila cocked her head at a bemused angle and pursed her lips in wonderment as I tried to wrestle the drive from the USB port from her laptop. "Please let me help you," she said. "I know you don't understand Russian and our keyboards are different. You'll have quite a time navigating on my PC."

She had the single file on the drive open in a flash. It was a multi-tabbed excel workbook with reams of data under oddly named headers like dosage, white cell count, and capacity.

"This is clinical trials data," she said in the most matter-of-fact way. "Biotech firms spend big money on this stuff."

*

My face froze as I got off the train in Irkutsk and saw Toshi, holder of my gambling markers and amputater of small digits, in the arrival hall with several of his Japanese tomodachi.

I never figured Toshi for the industrial espionage type, much too rough for that I thought.

"Pal-sie, you got my cargo?" he asked, picking his teeth with a pocket knife.

I handed him the jump drives and he handed over my markers.

"Here's your bonus," Toshi said thrusting a small, blue felt covered jewelry box into my reluctant grasp. I opened it and took out a gaudy, chunky gold Pinky ring.

I was only too happy to slip it onto my little finger, still firmly attached to my left hand.

Jerry Garcia Speaks From Beyond the Grave

2011-07-27T14:55:00.001-04:00

He does indeed in my fiction piece over at Pure Slush. As Michael week continues..Check it out here.

The PPL featured in Charlotte magazine

2011-07-26T17:43:00.001-04:00

Yep that is me and my crew featured in the August Charlotte Magazine. Stay tuned big stuff is coming.

Polecat

2011-07-25T20:00:00.000-04:00

He’d never been called a polecat before and wasn’t sure how to react. Was it his southern heritage and animal movement that garnered this curious sobriquet? Or perhaps she’d noticed his obscure reference to the reverence placed upon Siamese mousers by the Egyptians.

Completely unaware polecats were not felines at all but rather members of the weasel family, he noted her demeanor had distinctly shifted. Suddenly feeling inadequate under the presence of her steely glare he simply asked her.

“Whatever do you mean by such a malodorous moniker, my dear?”

“What I mean by it sir, is that only polecats procreate with the siblings of their mates. I’ve always known my sister was of this genus, but I hardly suspected the same of you.”

Salvation - Exit 3B

2011-07-24T19:59:00.000-04:00

Only an hour after a Big Mac Value Meal, Luke was overcome with spiritual hunger. He followed the off ramp at the exit marked: Jesus, Moses & Buddha. Primal prayer was waiting for him at the I45 Prayer Room, IHOP and Truck Stop. A hand lettered sign that asked: LOST?, pointed around back where upon entering a large windowless room Luke was met by Djembe, Bongos and rhythmic beat meted out from countless arms and feet tangled in wordless chant and gesture. He fled his urbane existence and sought awakening that would best be left in the hands of strangers. He cried after being baptized in the flowing fountain of frozen Diet Coke. Truckers offered him torn scratch offs, half eaten bags of Cheetos and hula clad rumble girls for his dash. He revved up the Pinto and, with full tanks of gas in both the car and his soul, he gunned it back onto the faceless flow of weekday motorists.

675 Hennepin Avenue up at ATON

2011-07-23T19:18:00.001-04:00

The perfect Noir in exactly 675 words?? Read all about the Minnesota Mob here in my piece at A Twist of Noir.

Our Closet up at Charlotte Viewpoint

2011-07-22T19:39:00.000-04:00

My micro surrealist piece, Our Closet, is up over at my main gig of late, Charlotte Viewpoint. Oh btw we have great content that is not just for Queen Citizens - sign up for our weekly push, friend us at FB and visit often - we have wonderful writers.

Adventure in India

2011-07-20T16:28:00.001-04:00

My travel feature: Adventure in India is in this month's SouthPark Magazine. For those without access to this fine highbrow magazine here is my piece:

Adventure in India

Troubled Mind -

2011-07-19T15:22:00.001-04:00

for Jason Evans CON Contest

After two days of trying, Alicia was finally able to open her eyes. Swollen shut from earlier trauma, her first view since the “accident” was streaked scarlet like a Caribbean sunset. The tropics were far from her mind though as she strained to make out the familiar shape that beckoned her closer. She tried to rise from the bed that was her prison to follow its call, but was stopped by the nurse.

“There now Miss,” the nurse was perfunctory, yet detached, feigning a pleasing tone she employed dozens of times per day, “Just rest now.”

The nurse tightened the restraints on her troubled charge. Alicia was too medicated to realize she was bound to the bed, unable to do anything other than sleep. At least it resembled sleep. Those with the keys to the locked ward where she resided knew however that the medically induced stupor only temporarily hid the self inflicted horrors awaiting Alicia.

Gently stroking her check, the warm hand gently awakened Alicia. She saw it clearly now, but could not make out its owner, the red haze persisted. She saw only a detached arm caressing her, petting her, mothering her. Succor hers for a moment, she drifted back to sleep.

The residents were puzzled as they peered over Alicia with their charts. Sound asleep, they spoke freely.

“Why would she cut off her own arm?” The first year resident asked no one in particular.

In unison, the rest simply shook their heads.

Cranbrook Lane

2011-07-18T00:00:00.004-04:00

Cranbrook Lane crossed my path today.

It wound in a lazy S, unadorned in normalcy.
Tidy lawns pretended not to know me from before.
Was I so different then?

Those summer days when shadows cast with dull edges.
When fog veiled the clearest morning.
When hollow void pulled with ferocity.
When joy and longing did not summon the courage to come.
When the depth was incalculable.

Cranbrook Lane appeared on my horizon.

One who loved me brought me there.
There where fractured sun knifed through with purpose.
Where vision focused on what was to be and abandoned what I could not change.
Where the tenacious fight was fought.
I am so different now...

Cranbrook Lane. Street of my past. Take me to my next.

Familiar I appear to her now.
It was who I was that she forgot.
I remember. I want to remember.

I'll not go back.

Jazz Guru Hosts Grand Site

2011-07-17T03:57:00.001-04:00

My pal Jeff Jackson shows off his jazz chops here in the Charlotte Observer..

Sunday Cook-out #fridayflash

2011-07-15T15:41:00.000-04:00

Alfonse sat on his deck admiring his handiwork. He and the John Deere 5740 had the fescue looking ripped. He took another swig of Schlitz ML when out of the corner of his eye he saw a lady tiger mosquito land on his bronzed and sweaty forearm.

She thrust her proboscis through seven layers of dermis and began to suck, filling her belly with his Welbutrin and Xanax infused blood.

Al tensed his muscle just so she couldn't release her grip. Once the siphon had started, it would not reverse and she exploded after a minute sending Al's pathogens all the way to the grill which was filled with brats and burgers freshly flipped by Melba.

Adorned with Al's ketchup the kids didn't wait to be called in for supper and gorged on the protein rich snacks their dad had cooked up.

Heart Defect

2011-07-14T15:02:00.000-04:00

"It's right here in your chest X-Ray, Can you see it?"

"That dark, jagged line - there???"

"Yes, it's almost imperceptible, but clearly there is a tear in the lining. It is one of the most unusual occurrences of heart damage I've seen in my 25 years as a Cardiologist. A most remarkable aortic defect. When again did you say the chest pains began?"

"Right after she left me Doctor. The day my wife told me she loved someone else.

Rejected

2011-07-13T14:58:00.001-04:00

Dear Editor;

Thanks ever so much for your dispatch in rejecting my submission.

The frailty of my ego would not bear a protracted period awaiting the definitive fate of my work.

Sharing insight into your process is comforting to me and knowing that; "many talented writers fail in their initial attempts" provides me with great solace.

Your specific request that I never submit to you again; ever, is cause for puzzlement, yet strangely motivating.

Compliantly yours,

Michael J. Solender

Exclusive Interview with TOP blogger

2011-07-11T05:55:00.000-04:00

Today I plum the depths of the Flash Blog-o-Sphere to explore that warped and twisted, self promoting and truly vapid blogger, ah ..me.

There were literally hundreds of other, more talented flashers and bloggers out there to interview, but expedience won out. Nothing is too banal for my readers so, I rang myself up to check my availability and as luck would have it I managed to catch myself, just in between stellar writes, and eager to chat. Please enjoy the following slightly edited for content chat with yours truly.

ME: What are you writing these days?

Me Again: Shit, mostly.

Me: You amuse me so, no seriously, what can your readers expect to be coming their way at the Not in the weeks to come?

MA: I'm trying my hand at comedic writes, but fear I'm not having much success. I never have trouble cracking myself up, but that can only take you so far in life.

Me: I actually find your humorous pieces, quite funny actually.

MA: You would.

Me: I see where you've branched out into the poetic realm of late, whats with that?

MA: I've discovered that grammar isn't near as important to poetry sites as it is for mainstream flash, plus funny line breaks and weird punctuation almost ensure publication.

Me: Tell me about your inspirations as a writer, who or what are your muses?

MA: Well clearly I'm not doing this for the money. And the piddly amount of comments I get are only good for a temporary buzz, you know like when you depress my jugular for that Carradine style game you like to play.

Me: Let's not get into that here, go on though.

MA: Well, I've always been told that chicks dig writers, so I'm waiting.

Me: You, we...I'm married though.

MA: Of course, and sweetie does seem to dig me a bit more. So I guess this writing thing is working out.

Me: Anything your readers would be surprised to learn about you that you'd care to share?

MA: Work release and good behavior have led to all that being expunged from my record..

Me: Oh sorry, I didn't mean that. Well that's all I have time for.

MA: Me too.

Me: I want to thank you for this tremendous insight into your creative process, I've learned a lot and I have to say I know I speak for all your readers in saying, of all the writers I know, YOU are certainly one of them.

MA: I'm really flattered that you, I, you..asked me to speak with myself, It's been a pleasure.

What is a Street Magazine?

2011-07-10T00:48:00.000-04:00

Find out here in my piece in the Observer.

1902 Society Tackles Social Issues

2011-07-09T15:38:00.000-04:00

Read my piece here in South Charlotte News about a local philanthropic group that gives time, talent and treasure in service to the community.

What it Means to Persist

2011-07-07T08:47:00.002-04:00

Next time you get to feeling mopey read this: