Wednesday, December 23, 2009


This is the nightmare—watching the professor prove a theorem, not understanding the proof, copying every character into our spiral notebooks, and acting like we understand, even though everyone in class agrees, before finals, the only way to pass is to memorize the proofs and write down exactly what the professor scratched out on his green board before sauntering back to the left side of the room, erasing as he goes, saying, “I hope . . . you’ve all . . . gotten it . . . down,” with the same grin he wears on his face this sunny Saturday morning as the wake of privet clippings stretches and his sunburned skull invites melanoma. Finally, he disappears around the corner of his front hedge, the orange snake following him like an eel, and I ask the GPS lady to take me home. As she directs me, I imagine her stating a case for gun control and wagging her wiry finger my way. I tell the GPS lady the hedge trimmers looked quite sharp and could have taken off at least a finger or two. But the GPS lady is adamant as she says to me sternly that she is recalculating my route because I have missed my turn.
Moral: One should only murder old professors in fiction.

Sunday, December 13, 2009


Even though twenty years have passed, the professor looks much the same as when he wore sport coat and chalk-smudged tie. He is a short, bald man, having gone to tiptoes to fill the upper recesses of the green board, his white socks flashing with the speed of his dance. Now, as the professor reaches to trim the hedge’s raised ends, white heels flash from his flip-flops like the insides of oysters in the sun. It is a difficult reach, holding the trimmer level to sculpt the hedge ends just so. As I sit in my car with the window up listening to the muted sound of the hedge trimmer, the GPS lady, apparently having thought long and hard about my earlier question about others having nightmares, or perhaps hearing the whir of the hedge trimmer, asks me to repeat my destination.
... To be continued

Thursday, November 19, 2009


As you may recall, I had embarked on a Saturday morning journey, following directions given by the GPS lady hidden within the electronics of my new car. When I reached my destination, a mere nine miles from my house, I parked on the far side of a street of stately homes and watched the man I knew to be my former numerical analysis professor trimming his front privet hedge with an orange electric hedge trimmer powered through an orange wire snaking out onto the front sidewalk where privet clippings had begun piling up. I asked the GPS lady how many other math majors from my alma mater had begun awakening on Saturday morning only to be ambushed by the nightmare of our math professor scratching his chalk at the green board, filling the board from left to right with a theorem proof they think will mean nothing to their lives, yet has created a terrible moment of panic on a particular morning when rest from a week’s work is sorely needed. I'm sure many of you can relate to this festering nightmare and my hatred of a particular pedagogue from the deep recesses of my past.
... To be continued

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Traffyck, GPS, Hedge Trimming, and Theorems -- a short story in parts

On a sunny Saturday morning, after drinking an entire pot of coffee in the cool breeze of my north-facing back porch, I wash up, dress, and go into my garage where the GPS unit awakens to the sound of my voice. My old car had a portable GPS suctioned to its windshield like a tongue, but did not have voice recognition and fell off whenever I parked in the sun. I enunciate the address I have found on an alumni people-finder site to the GPS lady and she starts me off on my journey through time in my new car. I ask if there are any traffic problems and she says there are not. Little does she know that when I vocalized the word "traffic," inside my head I visualized the all caps form of the title of my new novel, TRAFFYCK. be continued

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

TRAFFYCK just Released

I am posting once more today because I just linked this blog to my new Author Page on Amazon.

Here is the cover for the new novel just released. Medallion put the quote I received from Jeffery Deaver on the cover. Jeffery was very kind to me at a Mystery Writers of America convention earlier this year and agreed to read a pre-release. He read some chapters overnight at the convention and approached me the next day when we were on a panel together saying he really liked the novel and my style. I was very flattered. I'm sure you can't read the fine print on the cover to the left, so here it is:
"As chilling as Kiev in winter, TRAFFYCK is a thrilling tale of crime and geopolitics, leaping from Ukraine to the U.S. and back again. Populated with complex and appealing--or terrifying--characters, the story offers up a glimpse of life in a ruthless but little-known underworld, in which specters from the past--among them Chernobyl--arise at every turn."
~Jeffery Deaver, Worldwide Best-Selling Author of THE BONE COLLECTOR

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

TRAFFYCK (Lazlo Horvath Thriller)

TRAFFYCK—sequel to CHERNOBYL MURDERS (Lazlo Horvath Thriller) "While researching this serious topic, the terror of victims and families became real. If one compassionate and vigilant reader meeting brave rescuers helps to save one victim, this will be enough." ~ Michael Beres

"As chilling as Kiev in winter, TRAFFYCK is a thrilling tale of crime and geopolitics, leaping from Ukraine to the U.S. and back again. Populated with complex and appealing—or terrifying—characters, the story offers up a glimpse of life in a ruthless but little-known underworld, in which specters from the past—among them Chernobyl—arise at every turn."~ Jeffery Deaver, Worldwide Best-Selling Author of The Bone Collector

Sunday, March 15, 2009

Fat Man

One day, a large man appeared in the town square down the street from the local McDonald's where he had just eaten a breakfast special. Free coffee refill in hand, he mounted the soapbox put in the square for anyone wanting to use it. Some said the man was large because he wore many layers of clothing for our devastating winter. Others said this was not the case because of the thickness of his neck and head. He claimed his name was Clark Kentinger, or something like that. Everyone knew it was a phony name, but they gave him a listen. While he spoke with his echo-chamber-like voice, the man bounced from side to side, as if confined against his will inside an isolation booth saved from a 50s television game show where one contestant is asked questions and the other is not supposed to hear until it is his or her turn. The bouncing, some guessed, was a code, sending messages to others in isolation booths throughout the land. In this way, the large man is able to communicate messages unspoken concerning topics agreed to be off limits in the town and in surrounding towns. At the end of the day, the large man bounded out of town, leaving coffee stains on the soapbox surface, and has not been heard from for at least a day, an eternity on these media-savvy times. The effects of his bouncing about in our town are still felt, especially among fans who snigger within their own individual isolation booths. These isolation booths are hard to carry around and I feel sorry for those who force themselves into them. Sometimes, when voicing opinions at morning coffee klatches, they have to speak up in order to be heard and it's hard on their vocal cords.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Dial Up

I have dialup internet out in the woods. The squirrels in the trees outside are faster. So, I will start up Word and work on my next novel.