Monday, December 28, 2009

Poem published

old poem published at Lit Up Magazine
check it out

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Angel Cloud

Creative Writing Championships 2009
Flash Fiction

Challenge #3 assignment

GENRE - Fantasy

LOCATION - A playground

OBJECT - Binoculars

Angel Cloud

There was an older girl and two younger boys. They were really the same age, just the girl taller than the identical boys. They were beautiful children, gorgeous blond hair with dazzling smiles, and the gold tinted skin of an angel. The girl, Sarah, was the goalie in this ball kicking scenario, the boys were kicking a ball between them, running staggered toward the girl. One boy, Gunner, dribbled then kicked the ball to the other boy, Lincoln, and they moved across the whole cloud that way. They didn’t really touch the cloud – any of them – gliding inches above it, the ball floating between them, not really touching their feet. The boys both stopped - an arms-length apart, a dozen feet in front of the goal. Sarah clapped her hands together and shouted “Watch and Learn,” and she squinted in the hot sun looking slowly from boy to boy and put her hands on her skinny kneecaps. Gunner ran forward at Sarah, and Lincoln kicked the ball toward the far side of the goal, behind Gunner. The ball may have gone in the goal, Gunner may have interfered with Sarah as she lurched toward the ball, but the ball definitely rolled off the edge of the cloud, falling into the sky.
Lincoln ran toward the ball and dove to try to keep it from falling, but he reached over the edge and missed. Sarah and Gunner ran up behind him and they all looked down to see the ball bounce off an airplane and careen into a playground in Mandeville, Louisiana.
“Mooooooooooommm,” Sarah yelled and when she stood up and turned around her mother was standing in front of her.
“What did I tell you kids about playing down here? Is it really that hard to play over an ocean, really?”
“No mom” the kids replied in unison.
“Mom, we kicked the ball over the edge, can we go get it?” asked Lincoln.
“Fine. But dinner is in half an hour and you have to be there for the meal blessings.”
“OK,” the children yelled and they flew off the cloud, arms wide open, falling down toward the Gulf of Mexico.
The three angels leveled out and cruised at about 100 feet. Sarah wanted to splash in the water, go down and flop around with the dolphins, but she knew her mother wouldn’t like it – her brothers would just follow her and they’d all come back wet and have to change. Gunner tugged at Lincoln’s shoe, yelled to Sarah and pointed down to the playground where their ball had fallen. It was a large green field, enclosed by a fence. There was a jungle gym with grayish looking monkey bars and a slide and some see-saws. In the corner of the playground there was also a dirt baseball field and Gunner suggested a quick game of kickball but Lincoln said there was no time. As they flew over the playground a little girl looked up at them for a second then started spinning like a ballerina.
The angels landed a few dozen yards away from the girl and Lincoln ran and picked up the ball. It was an old ball, but still in perfect shape – so there was no reason to leave it on the surface. It would never get worn out, but it likely wouldn’t be appreciated if some child found it and took it home.
The little girl kept pointing up to the sky. Her mother crouched beside her and tried to hand her a pair of toy binoculars, but the little girl pushed them away.
“I see angels,” momma, she said.
“I told you, they are everywhere,” the mother said fighting back tears. “Especially on a wonderful day like this, with you and me under the sunshine. God is in the sunshine baby girl.”
The mother wrapped her arm around the little girl and they both smiled upward, the sun glistening off their skin. The girl told her mother something and they laughed, then the girl ran off toward their car and the mother followed with their picnic basket in hand, crying softly.
The three angels floated back up toward the clouds, hurrying so they wouldn’t miss the meal blessings.
As they sat down in the meal hall with their mother and grandparents and uncle, Sarah asked her mother why the little girl on the playground saw them.
“People don’t see angels, cause they don’t believe or they’re not thinking about angels and what’s above them, but sometimes they are thinking bout that stuff and they catch a glimpse of something divine.”
“The little girl was pointing at the clouds when we flew down,” Sarah told her mother. “Then when Lincoln was getting the ball I heard the little girl say she wanted to play on the clouds, because she thought they’d be super soft.”
“See,” Sarah’s mother said. “The little girl was thinking bout clouds and probably likes angels and when you three flew over she saw you for a second.”
“I felt bad though mommy,” Sarah said. “I wanted to let the girl come up and play with me and Lincoln and Gunner. We could use another soccer player.”
“Sarah I’m sure that little girl is practicing soccer right now and she will be up in Heaven with us pretty soon, and we will invite her over to our cloud.”
Sarah smiled.

Thursday, July 30, 2009

Sweet Smelling Terrorism

Creative Writing Championships 2009
Flash Fiction

Challenge #2 assignment
GENRE - Political Satire
LOCATION - A perfume shop
OBJECT - A hamburger

An officer brought in the witness, sat him down at the booth and put a great American hamburger with the works in front of him. All the officers had hamburgers and a sergeant was handing out bibs. Detective Frinkle sat down across the table from the witness and took out a notebook and a pen to write down his statement.
“What’s your name and why did you call 911 this afternoon” asked Detective Frinkle.
“Bobby Monk is my name. I, um, I sit, on this corner, everyday and nobody looks, at me… but, this guy did,” Monk dribbled the words out like an ocean cruiser sinking.
“What did this guy look like, Mr. Monk. Think hard and tell me if he looked like he was of Middle Eastern descent and determined to destroy the United States of America.”
“Well, he looked straight at me, for like three minutes, and he seemed nervous,” Monk said. “He was tappin’ his foot and put his finger in his right ear like he was listening to an earpiece. He was holding a bag with his left hand and I definitely think he was of Middle Eastern descent and I’m almost entirely positive that he looked like he was determined to destroy the United States of America.”
Frinkle scribbled in the notebook, stood up, put the notebook and his pen back in his pocket and left the hamburger shop. Frinkle walked through the automatic sliding glass doors at the front of Harvey’s Great American Hamburgers and stopped on the sidewalk and stared straight ahead. The street in front of him was blocked off by police barricades and police cars and police officers, and SWAT vehicles - all in front of Lucky Lady Perfume Shop.
“What do we got?” asked Detective Elliott.
“It’s definitely a terrorist in there, probably a whole cell. The witness said the man was communicating with an earpiece and delivering a bag, most likely stolen C4 or radioactive carbon neutral…. Lizer, anthrax,” said Frinkle.
“Radio what?”
“It’s a terrorist cell. The building is probably a front. I gave a TV interview about it already. Thousands of people go in and out of here each day. Who, other than a terrorist, stares at a complete stranger for three minutes?” Frinkle said.
“It’s a terrorist for sure. One of them Jihad guys?” Elliot asked.
“Yep,” Frinkle responded, as the men walked toward their detective vehicle, parked at the curb a few feet away, and leaned against it. “The perfume shop is probably so they can buy a gift for their 44 virgins in heaven before they blow up and see Allah.”
“We haven’t talked to anyone inside yet, have we?” Elliott asked.
“I’m not gonna talk to them anyway,” Frinkle said. “Not unless they agree to our preconditions. Whoever it is, whatever they did, they gotta give up and be punished. Have the bomb squad rig up the outside of the building to blow, and collapse on itself so it kills anyone inside,” Frinkle ordered. “The chief and the mayor are on board. People are terrified at the information we are giving them and they want to be safe.
“Will do,” nodded Elliott, and he walked toward the hamburger shop command center.
Elliott walked inside, ordered a hamburger and asked the sergeant to bring the bomb squad captain to him. The captain came over carrying some grainy printouts and handed them to Elliott. They were blowups of surveillance satellite shots taken from two miles above the back of the perfume shop and they painted a grim picture. The pictures showed proof of WMDs (White Magic Diamonds), thought to be used by underground Middle Eastern witchdoctors, painted on the ground in the parking lot behind the perfume shop. Elliott told the captain to rig the building to explode. The ‘go’ order would come in 30 minutes or less, he said. The captain hustled off and the sergeant brought Elliott his hamburger and a stack of reports. Elliott looked over the reports, scarfed down the burger, then stood up with one sheet of paper in his hand and walked out front to Frinkle.
Elliott handed Frinkle the report and said, “The witness gave us a deposit sketch of the terrorist and we identified him in the system. He lives alone on the south side, works in construction, attends night school and has multiple unpaid parking tickets. And we have positively not ruled out WMDs in the back parking lot of the store.”
“How long before the bomb squad is set?”
“15 minutes,” answered Elliott.
“Did you have one of those burgers?” asked Frinkle.
“Yeah. It was definitely tasty,” Elliott said.
“How about the Freedom Fries?” Frinkle asked.
“They were probably the most beautiful thing I ever put in my mouth,” Elliott said.
Frinkle put two fingers up to his mouth and let out a piercing whistle, then stuck his hand in the air and waved his finger in a circle, like a baseball umpire making the sign for a home run.
All the personnel cleared the road and took cover inside the hamburger shop. Frinkle and Elliott strolled to the middle of the road and stood in front of the perfume shop. The captain came over to them, handed them each a grenade and assured them that casualties would be minor and the merchants and citizens on the block would welcome this action.
Frinkle nodded and tapped the captain on the shoulder sending him away.
“On three,” Frinkle said. “One, two, threeeeeeeee.”
As Frinkle yelled threeeeee the two men pulled the pins on their grenades, raised their arms and tossed the grenades through the display window of the perfume shop. As the grenades broke through the window the captain ordered his bomb squad to blow the exterior bombs.
Frinkle and Elliott were blown backward, the devil lovin’ perfume shop went up in a ball of flame. In the smoke above the store Frinkle swore he could read the words “Mission Accomplished.”

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Wicked Jazz

Creative Writing Championships 2009
Flash Fiction

Challenge #1 assignment
GENRE - Horror
LOCATION - The trunk of a car
OBJECT - A candle

“It’s bad karma that put us in here. Bad karma you got for killing that hooker.”
“You told me to kill that hooker. Told me to kill a hooker first then move up to killing real people,” SteamTrain said.
SteamTrain could feel his right ear looking at him, smirking; that ungrateful sunuvabitch even started laughing and laughing and laughing loud too. It was hurting his head.
In the front of the car two large European gentlemen sat. They both turned and looked into the back of the car when they heard the laughing. Then the driver turned on the radio and turned it up.
SteamTrain rolled over onto his right side and smashed his ear against the floor.
“I’m not talking to you anymore,” StreamTrain told his ear.
“Muuuhfffuuha, muffuuhuh n ii gonnnnna muffafa,” came the muffled response from the ear.
SteamTrain raised his head for second then slammed his ear against the floor again before shifting slightly so he was almost on his back, with his legs tucked up in a ball and pushed out to the right, toward the front of the car.
“That’s right, be a bitch. A whiney bitch,” the ear said. “Who you gonna talk to? We are in the trunk of a Cadillac, there’s nobody else here. We are about to get killed anyway and I know your whiney ass is scared and is gonna start whining whining whining about it any second and you’re gonna want me to listen to you and then make you feel better.”
“That hooker was not bad karma,” SteamTrain said to the ear. “Killing that hooker inspired one of the best trumpet solos I ever played. I was at my peak as a band leader. All the boys were following me as we took flight and drifted and oozed into the brains of every person in the club that night. Fucking Miles Davis would have been jealous of my shit. Miles wishes he had a band like I did and a fucking trumpet solo like the hooker solo. That hooker solo was a wicked smoky trumpet piece with power and grace.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the ear said. “I read that same review. It was in the Kansas City Star after you played Jardine’s back in October. Christ. Don’t you have any original thoughts about your band or music, or do you just listen to those bonehead critics who like you and then memorize their thoughts?
“Shut up, goddammit. I will get rid of you,” SteamTrain said. “I’m getting rid of you as soon as I sign my protection deal with the polar bear. Nobody and nuttin’ will be able to hurt me then, and I’ll be playing Carnegie Hall and the Jazz at the Kennedy Center tributes. ASSHOLE!!!”
SteamTrain wiggled his head around to see what was in the trunk. When the brake lights were on he could see a screwdriver, a candle, a flashlight and a crowbar.
“I’ll dig you right out of my head with that crowbar,” StreamTrain said to his ear. “I’ll do it now, motherfucker.”
“Go ahead,” the ear answered. “They’re gonna shoot us when we get out of this trunk anyway. You shoulda never made that bet on the Chiefs.”
“You told me to make that bet,” SteamTrain shouted at his ear, slamming it on the floor of the trunk again.
“You don’t always have to listen to me. Take some responsibility. You made the bet. You knew you didn’t have the money to cover a loss,” the ear said.
SteamTrain reached down toward his feet and felt around for the crowbar. He wasn’t gonna take any more shit from his ear. He would pry the motherfucker off, right here, right now. He didn’t need that ear, he had another one. Fucking Beethoven was deaf and he made some good jams. Train knew he would still be the best trumpeter in the world with only one ear.
“I don’t like what you’re thinkin’,” the ear said.
“How do you know what I’m thinking?” SteamTrain responded.
“I’m in your head asshole,” the ear said laughing.
“Not for long,” SteamTrain declared.
There was more laughing. The two large European gentlemen driving the car looked back toward the trunk again and wondered what the fuck was going on.
His fingers brushed past the crowbar and a smile came across SteamTrain’s face. His hand clasped around the cold metal bar. It felt heavy and evil. Train’s fingers stretched to the end of the handle and found a sharpened end for scraping and prying. Yes. The crowbar would take that ear right off.
“That’s not cool, this is not cool man,” screamed the ear. “You gotta be a chill cat, man, a smooth cat like Miles. You can talk your way out of this gambling thing. You can make some money at the club this week and pay it off. You don’t need to use that crowbar man, that’s just insane. I’m your damn ear.”
“I know, and you’re talking to me. You gotta go,” SteamTrain said.
SteamTrain scooted in the trunk, moving his whole body toward the engine of the car, clearing enough room to use the crowbar.
SteamTrain laughed raucously.
The car stopped in front of a 6’ x 6’ hole in the woods. A man stood beside the hole, with a gun tucked in his belt. The two large Eastern European gentlemen got out of the car and walked to the trunk.
“I’m looking forward to stopping this asshole from laughing,” one said, as they stood above the trunk lid and slid the keys into the lock. The laughing was so loud.
When the two Eastern European gentlemen unlocked the trunk they called the man standing beside the hole, and he came to stand next to them. All three of them stood staring down into the trunk. SteamTrain was dead. The men saw a crowbar thrust through his ear into his brain.
There was a loud laughing and laughing and laughing.


I'm a writer and marketing and communications specialist who has lived in Pittsburgh, Greensboro, NC, New Orleans, Cleveland and Toledo, OH. I've had poetry and and short stories published, I play guitar, and some other instruments, badly, I have a cell phone but I don't really like it, I am a big music fan and get lots of CDs and interview lots of bands of all genres.- Check out
Right now I do freeelance marketing, communications and writing. I used to be a newspaper editor, used to be Promotions and Advertising Director at a record label, I've done publicity for film festivals and booked a ton of shows. I have degrees in Communications and Writing. I like to read and I check out good plays and concerts.
I am looking for new job opportunities and if you are interested in hiring me email me at