Down to the short strokes of our trip, we decided to take it a little slower today and only plan one big excursion. I woke up at my now usual time of around 5:30, showered, made some coffee and tea and turned on the TV. Today, a half a world away was January 20th, inauguration day for president elect Donald Trump.

It was strange and surreal to observe the goings on back home in the US, but what was even stranger was the fact that the Russians barely commented about politics, or even about Trump. You’d think that with the supposed “Bro-mance” between he and Putin, that we would have seen plenty of homeges to "The Donald," but the fact was, other than a few cheesy souvenirs, he barely registered in the minds of every day Russians.  

After breakfast, Dave, Tim and myself started our day by trekking across a bridge that crossed from our hotel across the Moscow River and then visiting the Europa Mall one last time to do some shopping. It was a nice day allthough still cold and we checked out the bridge and some of the other structures before entering the mall. Tim had wanted to pick up a Russian themed T-shirt for a co-worker, and so we initially scoured the many clothing stores to see if we could find one. The stores were decidedly more high-end and commercial than would suit our purposes and we couldn’t find anything similar to the souvenir items we had seen on Arbat Street. 

While we were inside the mall, we also decided on some last minute shopping for Russian vodka and other local delicacies. Down on the lower level of the mall was a full sized grocery store, and we went in to do some shopping and discover even more about how the average Muskovite lives.

Far from the Soviet era images of sparsely stocked shelves and babushkas clutching ration books, the store was modern, well stocked, and as artfully merchandised as any western chain. A staple of the Russian diet, we saw a fully loaded “pickled bar” with everything from carrots, to garlic, to onions, and of course, cabbage on display. Also evident was the Russian reliance on fish as part of their sustenance, and we saw fish available as pre-packaged, fresh-frozen . . . or even live!!

I picked up some Russian chocolates and two bottles of Vodka, one from Siberia, and then another more expensive bottle of Kremlin Award, and we headed back to the hotel and started packing for the trip home ahead of Vlade’s arrival. 

Vlade picked us up around noon and we made our way across town to our only attraction of the day, the massive Ostankino Radio Tower. Constructed from 1963 to 1967, the tower is the tallest structure in Europe at 1,772 ft tall and the eight tallest structure in the world. It serves a host of TV and radio stations, and is a poplar tourist attraction for its observation tower and the Seventh Heaven Restaurant located at 1,200 ft. 

The security here was tighter than any we had encountered outside of the airport. Besides having to empty or pockets, and go through a metal detector, we also had to produce our passports which were run through a scanner. Throughout the history of the tower, it had suffered numerous fires and, although none of them were the result of terrorism, the Russians weren’t going to take any chances. 

After passing through the security screening, we boarded an elevator, which took us to the observation deck at a rate of 3 meters per second. This was far slower than the normal 7 meters per second that it usually ran at, but the wind was blowing slightly stronger today and so the rate of ascent was dialed back. 

We arrived at the observation deck and were treated to a stunning view of the city of Moscow. If you ‘d like to stroll around with me, click right here.

Nice view huh? Well if you like that, how about walking with me and staring down 1,200 feet? Got the nerve? Click here.

After taking in the view and snapping pictures and taking videos, we descended the stairs one floor down to the Seventh Heaven Restaurant. No other visitors to the tower were dining at the moment and so we were seated immediately at our booth on the slowly rotating floor. Our last day in Russia deserved some celebration and so, with the exception of our driver Vladimir, we all ordered Russian wines and toasted. 

The food menu came next and we were pleased to see that it was in English as well as Russian, although Vlade again came to the rescue by defining the selections further. I settled on the Oliver Salad, a molded potato and carrot salad that was a Russian favorite and typically served on special occasions such as the New Year. Besides the potatoes and carrots, the salad also had shrimp, crayfish, hard-boiled quail eggs, and of course the Russian piece de resistance, caviar. Along with the salad I also enjoyed pelmeni that was made with squid ink pasta and topped with horseradish. All I can say is that it was absolutely delicious. 

We ended our visit to the Ostankino Tower and to the city of Moscow with a hearty toast. This will definitely go down as one of the most incredible trips I have ever taken.
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Author’s note: This trip and this blog would not have been possible without the contributions and efforts of several people. First of all, to Dave Forney, my best friend and the man who put it all together. From the airline tickets and hotel reservations, to discovering and researching all of the amazing things we saw and did in one short week, a hearty thank you to Dave.

Secondly to Tim Forney, who was beyond a doubt the trip’s main shutterbug and photographer. I “borrowed” several of the photos you have seen in this blog from Tim's shots. Also, his gregarious nature put us into contact with dozens of strangers who became fast friends and who spiced our trip with a healthy dose of humanity.

And finally to Vladimir Piskarev, our driver, tour-guide and new friend. Without Vlade’s knowledge of the city, the language, and the culture, we would have been lost babes in the woods. At a bare minimum, we would have had to confine our sight-seeing activities to within walking distance of our hotel. At the worst, we would have been at the mercy of some of the more unscrupulous taxi drivers in the city. If you are considering a trip to Moscow or to St. Petersburg, I cannot stress enough the importance of having Vlade guide you around. It is a small price to pay to have a private tour guide and it can mean the difference between a poor experience, and one you will treasure for a lifetime. Vladimir’s website is: http://russiafreetour.com/ 
And you can friend him on Facebook here: 

Happy travels everyone!!
Christopher J. Lynch          

After the action packed but long day yesterday, we all found that we were beginning to burn out a bit. But the temp had warmed up a little and was hovering around –1C and so that was promising.

After being denied the shot of my book Russian Roulette at Red Square the previous day, I made this a priority for today. I had one other book remaining and I was going to be presenting it to our host, Alla Larina, at the Moscow Brewery tour later on. 

So, when Vlade picked us up at our usual time this morning, we made a bee-line – as fast as a bee could travel in the snarl of Moscow traffic – back to Red Square. When we arrived about an hour later, Vlade parked the car close by and Tim, Dave and I jumped out to – as indie filmmakers say when they operate without a permit to shoot – steal the shot. I just hoped that our favorite spy Natasha wouldn’t be there to derail our plans.

As it turns out, it took a bit longer than we thought as Tim started chatting up a visiting group of tourists from Kazakhstan. It was a very large family and they were very friendly, especially when they found out we were from the US. We took a couple of pics with them along with my “money shot,” and then headed back to Vlade’s car, our mission completed.

From Red Square, it was a less congested drive to the Cosmonaut Museum. This was something that I was very excited to see as my hobby when I was young had been studying space exploration and the history of our astronauts, especially during the early Mercury and Gemini programs. I read every book I could find about the astronauts and their missions, built all of the models, and collected photographs for a scrapbook that I maintained. I was very preoccupied by space travel and it was stated by several of my teachers that all I had inside my head was space. Hey – Wait a minute! Now I know what they meant!! LOL

The museum was easy to spot in the distance as it had a large edifice of a rocket being launched into the heavens. After taking a few photos outside, we got our tickets, went through security and entered. 

The museum was large, two stories and contained literally hundreds if not thousands of displays. Once a huge source of pride for the Soviets, they had scored some early firsts in the 50s and 60s, quickly besting our own American space program. They had the first satellite in space, the first man in space, the first man to orbit, the first woman in space and on and on. Eventually we caught up and overtook them, but for a while they clearly had us on the ropes.

Inside we saw many displays and mockups of some of their early space hardware. Their was a full-scale mock-up of Sputnik 1, the first satellite to ever enter space and one that I had a very special kinship with; after all, it had been launched just one day after I was born.

​Only the size of a basketball, it was sent into orbit with a path that deliberately put it right over the continental United States just to make sure the Americans couldn’t refute its existence. As added insurance, it broadcast a pulsing beep that was at a frequency that the Russians knew many US HAM radio operators could listen in on. The Russians were not to be denied their accomplishment. 

Besides unmanned vehicles, they also had plenty of ones for man – and beasts! The Russians had used dogs as test subjects in the early days and they had mock-up of their capsule as well as their four legged spacesuits. 

The greatest homage though was not surprisingly, to Yuri Gagarin. The first man in history to go into space and orbit the earth, he had reached such heroic stature that some in the country believe it eventually cost him his life. All of us were stunned to hear Vlade share with us the belief that many in Russia held that Gagarin was becoming TOO popular and outspoken about the government, and that they purposely sabotaged his aircraft and caused him to crash to his death. You see, even the Russians have their conspiracy theories.
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One fanciful theory they did not hold with was that we Americans had not made it to the moon before them. There were several displays that lauded our own country’s own accomplishments in space, including a nod to the Apollo 11 crew.  This is especially telling as they would much more to gain by denying the landing than any of the crackpots in our country that believe it was all a hoax.     

Because death-defying space travel wasn’t macho enough to sate our primal male needs, the next stop on our agenda today was the Moscow Brewery. Although primarily know for its vodka, Russia also has an established and growing beer industry with over 600 breweries nationwide. The Moscow Brewery was unique in that it was larger than a micro-brewery, but far smaller than a one of the beer giants like Baltika.  

Vlade again expertly guided us to our next location and we entered the cavernous factory and asked to speak with our host, Alla. Always curious about new and unique things to explore in Moscow, Dave had found out about the brewery and when he learned that they gave tours in English, set the wheels in motion for us to be their guests today.

Alla was attractive, charming, and spoke perfect English. Soon we were introduced to Mikhail, the head brew-master for the facility. He was short stocky lad who, besides beer making, was also was an expert in martial arts. 

He and Alla began the tour by first showing off some of the many products that they manufactured. You could really sense a feeling of pride in Mikhail’s voice as he introduced us to the various brews, many of which had won competitions. 

Next we saw some of the huge vats and mashing units that were part of the process. Unlike my experience in an oil refinery, the equipment and facility were so clean here you could literally eat off of the floor if you wanted to. 

After seeing some of the vats, we were taken into an R&D lab where various brews were concocted, tested and, best of all – tasted! In short order, glasses were produced and we were all sampling our first Russian beers.

Our whistle wet by several varieties, we moved on to the control center. Like most modern facilities, the process was very automated and ran 24/7. Operators sat at control displays and monitored the process for any upsets or parameters going out of spec. Like the operators I knew at Chevron, and like most operators of automated systems everywhere, the hardest job they had to do all shift was to not go crazy with boredom.

We next moved to the automated packaging line where various brews were put into cans or bottles, boxed and palletized for delivery. In many ways the brewery was unremarkable and relied on the same automated machines that others did. The difference was in the people here, who exuded a real pride in their work and affection for the company. 

No brewery tour would be complete though without more tasting and so we were escorted into the company canteen. Even though it was already into the afternoon, the canteen was filled with employees, mostly females. We would later learn that one Thursday a month, the company would put on a tea for the employees. Mikhail steered us through the room and over to a full-length bar. Again, glasses were produced and soon we sampling any one of the ten or so beers that were on tap. 

We were all having a great old time imbibing with our hosts when I noticed a group of 4 young women sitting at a nearby table, eyeing me and whispering conspiratorially among themselves. Could they be co-operatives of our personal spy Natasha? I asked Mikhail what was going on and he went over to them to check it out.

He came back a few minutes later laughing and told me that they were arguing about if I was a celebrity or not. My curiosity piqued, I went over to the table and asked them exactly which celebrity did they think I was? 

They all laughed at being caught and then proceeded to tell me that 3 out of the 4 of them thought I might be James Hetfield from the heavy metal band Metallica, while the lone holdout thought I looked like a movie star, but she couldn’t think of who.  I’ve only been told once before that I looked like a movie star and that was the actor, William Hurt. When I told her my thoughts, she immediately felt vindicated and looked up William Hurt on her phone to show the others.

It was so much fun, I took a picture with them before we left.

After thanking our hosts, we had one more very important stop to make; to the home of our driver, tour guide and new friend Vladimir Piskarev. He had graciously invited us to his place for dinner and of course, some traditional toasting of Russian vodka. 

Vlade’s apartment was on the 15 floor of a large building surrounded by others that were very similar. Even though we had been all over the city and had seen so many things over the past week, the one thing we had not seen were any single family homes. Vlade explained that “Dachas” were mainly located outside of the city and were typically owned by the well to do olgarchs. Most people owned – not rented - apartments in large units like his. 

After being given a tour of his place, we all sat around the kitchen table and had pickled garlic, onions, cabbage, and cucumbers as a precursor to drinking the vodka. Next up was more pickled items to clear the palate and then finally, our main meal of Pemini and another entrée that was fried and reminded me of egg rolls. 
  

It was all very good and we felt honored to have been invited into his home. You can tour a country all you want, but unless you can explore how the average person lives, you have only scratched the proverbial surface.

And speaking of explore, why don’t you come along with me tomorrow as we check out the tallest structure in Europe, the Ostankino radio tower!

,​I slept fairly well again and began to realize that out of the three of us, I was probably enjoying the most shuteye on the trip. This could have been the result of my experience with the many foreign and domestic trips I had taken over the years, or due the fact that unlike Dave and Tim, I was not sharing a room with anyone.

After breakfast Vlade pick us up around 10 and we headed out to our first stop: a tour of world famous Boishoi Ballet Theatre. By now we had gotten somewhat familiar with the vibe in Moscow, and it was a good one. The omnipresent security checks notwithstanding, this was a very pleasant and civil society. Beside graffiti being practically non-existent, we also never saw even a scrap of litter on the ground. Driving in the city was hectic due to the inordinate number of cars, and the fact that they drove very close to one another, but during our entire trip, I never saw one incident of road rage, horns honked in anger, or any other display of animus. In fact, why don’t you come along with us on our commute by clicking here.

Vlade dropped us off near the theater with a plan to meet us later at our next destination, a tour or the Kremlin. We got into the growing queue of visitors lining up outside the Boishoi and waiting to get in to take the tour. A group of women that were standing in the line overheard us speaking English and immediately insisted that we move to the front of the line.  

After placing cloth booties over our feet – not the easiest thing to do when you’re wearing boots - we embarked on our tour. The tour was in English, and, quite interestingly, was given by a docent who once toured the US when she worked for the Moscow Circus.

Needless to say, the theater lived up to its reputation and was absolutely stupendous. No words, including mine, could do it justice. The ceiling was at least 80 feet high, and the fretwork and gold leaf on the upper balcony walls was stunning. That work alone took 300 artisans over 6 years to complete. Interestingly, the panels on the balconies were faced with paper mache’ instead of wood. This was done in order to retain the theater's amazing acoustics. An enormous chandelier made up of 25,000 pieces of crystal, hung from the ceiling and once had been lit with small oil lamps. Currently, the illumination came from electric lights and the Boishoi now had its own power supply. 

along After leaving the Boishoi, we walked the short distance over to Red Square to meet up with Vlade. I had wanted to him bring along his copy of Russian Roulette for a picture I planned on taking in front of St. Basils, but I had neglected to communicate my wishes with him. After talking to him about it now, It was soon apparent that was not going to happen today; his car was parked in a lot two metro stations away. In the interest of time, I decided not to worry about it for now. 

After purchasing our tickets and going through another metal detector and security screening, we headed into the world famous Kremlin. As Americans, we often only think of “The Kremlin” only in terms of it being the seat of power for Russia and – during the Soviet era – for the entire republic. But in reality, its governmental function is only one aspect of this complex of structures filled with rich history. 

The name Kremlin means "Fortress Inside a City", and besides the Grand Kremlin Palace, the official residence of the President of the Russian Federation (Putin), it contains four other palaces, four cathedrals, and the imposing Kremlin Wall with Kremlin towers. For the most part on the tour, you walk around on the inside of the walls and tour the various cathedrals. You can see the Grand Kremlin Palace, but you can’t get closer than 500 feet from it. 

One of the more popular attractions inside the Kremlin walls was the Tsar cannon. An enormous piece of artillery Guinness certified it as the worlds largest cannon. Although there was evidence to support the claim that it been fired at least once, it had never been used in battle.

Right next to the cannon is the Tsar bell, which was commissioned by a niece of Peter the Great. It too holds a world record as the largest bell in world at 445,166 lb, but unlike the cannon being shot, it has never been rung. A team of researchers did once simulated its sound by studying its metallurgy and using computational models. A giant piece of the bell, 23,000 lb, broke off when ill-advised guards threw water onto the bell to try to save it during a fire in 1737. You can only imagine what fate awaited them for their actions. Probably acted as the target for the Tsar cannon when it was test fired. 

​It was here, when we were standing next to the Tsar Bell and cannon, that I first noticed her. 

She was a young girl, probably in her early to mid twenties and was dressed in a fur-collared coat with the hood pulled up. There was something about her actions and bearing that seemed illogical and contrived to me. She was trying too hard to appear as someone who was just out touring the Kremlin like us, but it wasn’t working for me. I had to ask myself then if I was just being paranoid as crime writer and imagining intrigue and ulterior motive in everything? I shared my suspicions with the others and we moved on to visit some other churches, but kept an eye out for her.

Sure enough, wherever we went, she seemed to be keeping us in her sights, albeit from a distance. She never looked directly at us, but tried to act nonchalant. It didn’t work, and I thought that her prowess as a stealthy monitor of these visiting Yankee Imperialists barely came up to the standards of your average department store “secret shopper.”

Before long, we had nicknamed her Natasha, after the character Natasha Fatale in the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons. Soon, we began to joke about it and make up little scenarios and stories about out little spy who came in out of the cold. In short order, our personal spy Natasha, became the highlight of our day. 

After seeing several of the Kremlin cathedrals, we turned back toward the exit of the Kremlin. And what a coincidence; so did Natasha! We watched her as she crossed paths with a young man and there it was, just the slightest of facial expressions that told us they were working together. Then she doubled back and followed us again.

Just for fun as she was following me, Tim told me to stop so he could steal a shot of her. And he did. And with that one shot, Natasha's hopes of having a long and prosperous career with the KGB came to an abrupt end. 

We exited the Kremlin and decided to get something to eat before we continued on. There were plenty of restaurants to choose from on the outskirts of the Kremlin, including McDonalds, but we had already experienced the Ruskie version of the Golden Arches, and so we went to a My My Russian fast food restaurant.

My My was a very popular local chain and was set up like a cafeteria with a huge variety of Russian fare to choose from. Inside the rustic interior it was crowded, noisy and doing a brisk business. But it was fast and efficient and we went through the line quickly and then sat down to eat. The food was tasty, reasonably priced, and we all decided that we would definitely keep it on our list of favorite eateries.

After My My, we walked the short distance over to Red Square. The sight of famous St, Basils Cathedral and Lenin’s tomb, Red Square was one of the “must-sees” for anyone visiting Moscow. As we entered though, we found that we weren’t going to be able to have the total Red Square experience. As part of the ongoing winter/Christmas celebration, a large outdoor ice skating rink and arcade had been set up to one side of the square. I’m sure that the locals – and especially the children – appreciated the government’s gesture, but it seemed to cheapen the historic value of the square and made me think wryly of how it would look if a carnival was set up inside the Vatican. 

By now we were starting to run short on time for our evening activities, and so we knew that we wouldn’t be able to sightsee much here. We took some of the requisite snapshots of us standing outside of St. Basils and after Vlade informed us that you could not really get too close to view the historic leaders body inside Lenin’s tomb, we decided to skip it and head on out.

We had to get back to Vlade’s car and that meant taking the metro. We had wanted to ride it anyway so it worked out to be a fortuitous experience for us. In spite of the snarls of traffic in Moscow, the metro was still hugely popular and moved over 8 million people a day – more than New York and Paris combined! There was a local custom of rubbing the snout of a large bronze statue of a dog for good luck before boarding and so I took a second to do so while Tim snapped a quick picture of me.

We descended the escalator into the metro tunnel and Vlade got us into the proper queue for our train. We had only stood there for few moments before the loud whooshing sound of our approaching train filled the station. As soon as it stopped, the doors sprung open and people got off or onto the train with practiced deftness. The doors closed a few moments later and we were off. 

The train accelerated rapidly and I guessed that it achieved a speed of close to 50 MPH. It slowed down just as quickly, and it soon became apparent how the system managed to move so many people every day.  

After retrieving Vlade’s car, we slogged our way back to our hotel and rested up for a couple of hours. Around six in the evening he returned to pick us up again and we were off to the VTB Ice Palace in Moscow to watch a Russian hockey game.

None of us really knew what to expect of the hockey game. We had so far seen the high culture and high end side of Moscow with the Boishoi and the Radisson Royale, but we going to be getting down in to the blue collar trenches with this event. Would it be crowded with a bunch of drunken Russian fans brawling with each other, vomiting and falling down the steps? We didn’t know. How bloody would the game itself be? We were pleasantly surprised.

 

​Again, the venue was clean, modern and the clientele well heeled. After going through our umpteenth metal detector of the day we entered the stadium to the roar of fans supporting their favorite teams. Why don’t you walk to our seats with me by clicking here?

Besides the stadium being nice, the fans were well behaved and the action on the ice was fast-paced and non-stop. Dave had secured us corner seats right down by the goal and only a few rows up. The home team, the Dynamo’s won the game 1 – 0 and it was a great way to end what could only be described as an eclectic and unforgettable day in Moscow, Russia.  

​Why don’t you come along with us again tomorrow right here? 

​After getting a solid 5 hours of sleep – probably most I would get on this trip I woke up to find the temperature had dropped to minus 7C or about 19F. After catching up – a term I have learned to use liberally on my many trips – on my journal, I headed own to the hotel restaurant to have breakfast. 

When I walked in the crowd was much larger than the previous days. This was due to the addition of a team of hockey players from Slovakia that were in town to play the Russians. It wasn’t the game that we were going to see on the following night, but it was cool to see them and talk to them.

At 10:30, our intrepid Vlade picked us up outside the hotel and we retraced our route from the day before to see the Novodevichy Convent. This time we were not turned away and were able to go inside the cloistered walls. It was beautiful and peaceful inside, the grounds covered in a blanket of snow. Still, I could not help but think about all of the women who were essentially imprisoned here against their wills, and I wondered if the walls could talk, how many cries of anguish would I hear.   

​After touring the convent grounds with its gold-leafed onion domed cathedrals we headed outside and around the convents high walls to tour the famous cemetery.

At the cemetery we saw very many interesting grave-markers. One highlight was the marker of Anton Chekov, one of Russia’s - and the world’s  - most famous short story writers.

After the convent and cemetery, we returned to the car and met back up with Vlade. In just a few short days, he had already become such an integral part of the success of our tour, that I thought it fitting to give him a copy of my second One Eyed Jack novel, Russian Roulette. Wanting to make the book even more special, I used Google to personalize it and wrote in Cyrillic, “Vladimir, Thanks for a great time. Enjoy Russian Roulette.” I think he was very touched at the gesture, and told me he would start reading it that night.

From the convent, we again retraced our steps and headed to the Russian WW II museum. Walking in from the back side this time we had to cross a large wooded park laden with fresh snow. There was a very interesting memorial statue dedicated to those who had fallen during the war. It was a slow-motion of men falling like dominoes and in the process, morphing into headstones. It was quite an artistic, albeit grim, reminder of the horrific past.

After passing through security, we entered the inside of the museum, which led you through the various battles, artfully recreated through incredible dioramas. These three dimensional depictions could never of course do justice to what it was really like to endure these horrors of human conflict, but after seeing them - and after learning how much the Russians had personally suffered in the war - it became painfully clear why the Russians have a paranoia about being invaded.

After touring the museum, we didn’t have enough time to head over to Kremlin and St. Basils, so we changed course and went to famous Old Arbat Street, one of the oldest streets in Moscow and now a trendy spot for people to walk and window shop the many souvenir stores.  
​I picked up a couple of souvenirs here and then we decided we had packed in enough for today and that it was time to return to the hotel. We had our busiest and longest day yet coming up tomorrow and we wanted to try to recharge – as much as possible – our batteries.

We arrived back at the Radisson around 5, and agreed to meet at a Georgian Restaurant inside the hotel at around 7. Even though our Yankee curiosity got to us and we succumbed to a McDonalds meal the night before, we still wanted to experience as much as we could of the culture, and that extended our adventure to the various cuisine. 

Before long we were enjoying wonderful Georgian cheeses and some delicious Georgian red wine. We also shared in an appetizer whose name escapes me, but as far as I was concerned, it was a cheese pizza.

The main course was delicious roasted vegetables and Beef Khinkali, small sacks made out of dough that contained beef or pork. Before allowing us to sample them though, we were outfitted with bibs to catch any internal juices and were instructed in the proper technique: Grab the Khinkali by the top, raise it above your mouth and bite into it. They were delicious!

We followed this with desert and coffee: Tiramisu for me, and Honey Cake for Dave. Tim held off.

​Hit bed at around 11 and began looking forward to day 4 of our adventure: The Boishoi Ballet, Red Square, St. Basils, a tour of the Kremlin, and most exciting, a Russian hockey game.

,​MOSCOW DAY 1
"You can get there from here."
The impetus for this amazing trip had its roots based on a trip my best friend Dave Forney made almost exactly a year ago when he helped escort his niece, Louisa, to the Moscow Academy of Choreography, where she would train with the Boishoi Ballet. Louisa had recently been home for the holidays and this was a déjà vu trip of sorts for her and her uncle. I had gratefully been invited to come along and with us on this excursion was also Dave’s brother Tim.

Other than being treated to the sight of thousands of migrating whales when we left LAX, the flight to Moscow from Los Angeles was uneventful, which is the way all 12 hour flights should be. This was in a great part due to the extensive planning by Dave. Dave took care of everything, from booking the flights, getting our preferred seat assignments and having our boarding passes printed and ready for us at the airport. Having him organize this incredible trip was like having our own personal travel agent as well as tour guide. 

We were “wheels up” just about on time and soon were headed non-stop to our destination. Our route took us across the Midwest, up through Canada, over the Hudson Bay and skirting over Greenland. It was dark and cloudy most of the way, so we couldn’t see much. Instead, we enjoyed our two in-flight meals, watched some TV shows and movies on the entertainment system, but mostly tried to watch the inside of our eyelids as we knew we were soon going to be “running on fumes” with the ½ day change in time.

Landing at one of the three main airports in Moscow was smooth but not without a little anxiety. The cloud cover was so thick and low that we didn’t break through until we were about 300 feet off of the ground. Still, the pilot set us down without incident and we taxied over the cold and icy tarmac to our gate. It was one degree above freezing when we landed.

Inside, I was very impressed with the cleanliness, modern appointments, and efficiency of the Moscow airport. We breezed through customs and immigration and I actually found the immigration officers here much more personable and accommodating than those I had encountered in Canada on my numerous business trips up there.

​In short order we had our bags retrieved and were greeted by Vladimir. No, not Putin silly!! Vlade was Dave ‘s driver from his previous visit and he had booked him for the week to take us around as well as play personal tour guide for us. See what I mean about Dave handling everything.

We loaded the bags into Vlade’s van and headed out of the airport to take Louisa to her academy at the Boishoi Ballet. The first thing I noticed while driving through the city toward our destination was that Moscow was far from the drab and stoic city it might have been back in the Soviet era. It was a modern, cosmopolitan city that had embraced capitalism with a vengeance.

Car dealerships bordered the highway, along with malls, furniture outlets and clothing stores. Commercial billboards - non-existent in the last “communist” country I had visited (Cuba) – dotted the skyline, screaming at the modern Russian consumer to part with their hard-earned Rubles for everything from designer clothing,  to jewelry and expensive perfumes.

​We reached Louisa’s academy in about 45 minutes and by now, at 4:30, it had already grown dark. Moscow rides higher than us in latitude and is therefore closer to the north pole. The proximity meant that we had far shorter days than we were all used to in sunny So-Cal. The sun went down at 4:30 at this time of the year, and didn’t rise again until 9:00 a.m. the next morning. Needless to say, sunlight was a precious commodity here at this time of year and scarcer than fresh meat would have been during the cold war.

​With Louisa safely ensconced in her digs, we headed back across town to our hotel, The Moscow Radisson Slavajanskaya, and then made plans for Vladimir to pick us back up at 10 a.m. the following day. Like everything we had seen on our trip so far, the hotel was clean, modern and seemed to function efficiently. The key difference was the security presence. We had to walk through a metal detector to get in and endure the suspicious stares of several security personnel. The Russians, as we would come to realize, didn’t play around when it came to security and metal detectors and personnel – both overt and undercover – would be the norm from shopping malls to museums to sports venues.
​
Another, less foreboding departure from the norm, was the fact that the Russians still celebrated Christmas in January up until the feast of the epiphany. Christmas trees were everywhere long with lights and other decorations. 

​After settling in, we all freshened up and then decided to meet an Italian restaurant called Talavera. Besides serving delicious Italian fare, the restaurant also hosted the all you can eat breakfast buffet that would become our cuisine de rigueur for the trip.

​We feasted on some pizza and beers, and then retired to bed for what would be a fitful night as we tried to fight off the effects of a 12 hour jet lag.       

Moscow Day 2
"There's always tomorrow."
After fighting sleep throughout the night/day, I finally got up around 4:00 a.m. Moscow time. I downloaded my pics from the previous day, and then worked on my journal as well as handled some emails. 

At around 8 I headed down to the hotel gym, walking past the numerous restaurants, high end shops, and even a Bentley car dealership that were located in the hotel’s lobby. The gym was clean, well equipped and sparsely occupied. Besides the standard machines and free weights, they also had a pool which I wouldn’t be able to utilize as I had neglected to pack a bathing suit. I guess when you are packing to head into freezing daytime temps, a bathing suit is about the farthest thing from your mind.

I met Dave and Tim in the same Talavera Restaurant we had dined at the night before and we all dug in – like typical Americans – to the all you can eat buffet. Besides having our sleep patterns thrown off, our meal schedules were all topsy-turvy as well and we found that we were famished. Hurray for all you can eat!!

We met Vlade in front of the hotel at around 10 a.m. and headed out. The weather was just above freezing but we had prepared well for it and were comfortable. Before starting some of the tour items on our agenda, we backtracked to Louisa’s school so that Dave could drop off a box of candy he had brought as a gift for a person working there. With his niece and God-daughter a half a world away, he thought it best to maintain good foreign relations. After all, Russia was very used to operating on bribes and when in Moscow, do what the Muskovites do!
​

​Traffic was light heading out of our hotel, but would soon thicken to a level of congestion that – if you can believe it  - was on par with Los Angeles!! Moscow is a city of close to 15 million, and one of the downsides to prosperity and so many people owning cars is the traffic. Vlade explained that during the Soviet era, hardly anyone could own a car and the vast majority of the population had to rely on the metro. Now, with unbridled capitalism, that equation seems to have flip-flopped. 

Because of the traffic, we didn’t reach our first destination, the Novodevichy Convent for about 45 minutes. Founded in 1524, it’s best know by the locals as “The Cloister of Moscow.” Built with high walls and twelve towers strategically situated around the rectangular structure, it was initially constructed as a fort. Before long though, its isolation proved a convenient place to warehouse many ladies from the Russian royal families and boyar clans who were forced to take “the veil.”

While many of these sequestered tsarevna’s were unable to escape from inside the convent’s high walls, we found that we could neither enter the convent, nor tour its famous adjacent cemetery. Just before Christmas a Russian aircraft had crashed in bad weather, killing most of the members of a popular choir group as well as a beloved nurse. The funeral was being held for her here today and so we were summarily denied access. 

We decided to make lemonade out of lemons – or rather Vodka out of potatoes – and so we toured the expansive park that surrounded the convent proper. It was a nice day and plenty of people were strolling around with babies in strollers as well as a cross country skiing class that was taking advantage of the fresh powder. Before long, the sun made an appearance and warmed things up considerably. 

o​We next headed over to The Moscow State University. Built during the Stalin era, it is one of the tallest buildings of its type in Moscow. Massively and solidly built, it is known locally as one of the “Stalin buildings” while foreigners have dubbed it one of “The Seven Sisters,” so named because only seven of the buildings with the distinctive architecture were ever built in Moscow before the brutal leader met his demise in 1952.

Unlike our surprise at being turned away at the convent, we knew that it would be a crap-shoot to try to gain entry to the campus when we arrived. Dave had been turned away before but had searched out and emailed the dean of the school to see if we would be given access. The dean never replied to the email and without a patron, we were denied entrance again. Still, we were able to tour the outside of the buildings and the grounds before heading off.

​Next on the schedule was quick trip to Sparrow Hill, a popular lookout in which to view the city. Most interesting here was a ski jump ramp that was used by daredevils training to avoid their own ignoble, “agony of defeat.” After taking in the view briefly, we headed into a nearby Russian Orthodox Church where Tim bought some religious souvenirs. 

The plan had called for us to head from Sparrow Hill to the luxurious Radisson Royale Hotel to have a drink of vodka in the restaurant/bar on the 26th. floor, but we were all starting to get hungry and thought it best to get some food in us before we assaulted our guts with the potent Russian national liquor. 

Vlade drove us to a nice little Russian Café called Gorad, which means “City” in Russian. One guy inside the café was hardly what you would call “The Welcome Wagon” and we had to deal with his drunkenness and overt social behavior. I didn’t know if this was to become the norm now that we were out in the city, but never the less, he soon was escorted out. 

We had a nice meal of beef cutlets, salad and soup. Just to underscore how things get lost in translation, beef cutlets were actually meatballs as Vlade explained that the term “cut,” would also mean grind up meat. 

​Just a short walk away from the Gorad Café was the Russian WW II Museum. It was on our agenda for tomorrow, but with the twin dismissals by the convent and the university, we thought it might be opportune to reshuffle the schedule a bit. On the way to the museum, we passed by an elaborate outdoor ice carved village, which looked beautiful, especially with the multi-colored lighting.

As we approached the WW II Museum it was easy to see even from a distance that the Russian’s took a great deal of pride in their sacrifices made for the war. There was a giant tower with magnificent statues, an eternal flame, and a curved colonnade that served as the entrance to the museum.                                                                                                                                           
The museum represented the third strike of the day though as it happened to be closed today, a Monday. We resolved to hit the convent and the museum hard the next day and took our sorrows to the Radisson Royale, where they could be properly drowned in some of Mother Russia’s Milk.

The Radisson was a stunning 5 star hotel and served an elite and elegant clientele. There were Rolls Royce sedans parked out at the front entrance, and it seemed to be a dress code that women had to be donned in expensive furs.

After passing through yet another metal detector and the watchful eyes of security personnel, we entered the opulent lobby of the Radisson. Bypassing the pricey shops, Vlade took us to the second floor and to a giant scale model of the city of Moscow. We examined the model, saw where we had been and where we would be going and then headed to the 26th. floor to wet our collective Yankee whistles. 

By now if was blowing light snow flurries that, along with the Christmas decorations and the American holiday tunes playing in the background, created a white Christmas type of atmosphere. And if you don’t believe me, just click on the link here to see for yourself.

​As we were toasting each other and our good fortune with Beluga vodka, we looked out over the city of Moscow. Just across from the Royale was the Duma (Russian Parliament) building that in 1993 was the sight of an intense power struggle between then Russian president Yeltsen and the parliament members. The situation came to a head when a defiant Yeltsen ordered the military to fire on the building with artillery!! Imagine, that would be the equivalent in our country of the president of the United States ordering the military to fire on the capital building. DONALD, don’t get any ideas!!

Thankfully, the situation was resolved and cooler heads are now running the country – or at least we hoped.

Vlade dropped us back off at our own more pedestrian Radisson at about 6 o’clock. We freshened up a bit in our rooms and then regrouped. Wanting just some sustenance to carry us through the night, we walked over to the Russian McDonalds across from our hotel.

​The restaurant had counter service but additionally had automated kiosks that may soon be supplanting all of the US’s $15.00 an hour employees who think that they are irreplaceable. Wanting something from the menu other than what we could get at home, we all tried the Russian “Country Burger “ with potato wedges.

a Our tummy’s sated, we went over to the Europa Mall, which was just across the street from our hotel. Other than the signs being in a foreign language – although not all of them - it was like any other mall, except that it was incredibly ritzy! It was clean, well lit, and could satisfy nearly any consumer need you had. Again though we had to go through -you guessed it - another set of metal detectors and security checkpoint. 

Outside of the mall and brightly lit was a gorgeous display of St. Basils and Red Square in colorful lights. 

We returned to our hotel around 9 and hit the sack exhausted, but enriched. Our heads reeling with the thoughts that tomorrow would be another busy day.  

It's always special to have a new author stop by to chat, but author/illustrator Monique Bowman is unique in the fact that she is the first self-published children's book author we have interviewed on our site.
 
She was inspired to write her book, "When Two are Alike" by a lively squirrel that regularly visited her childhood home. She created a world from her squirrelly mind to share with children. Her stories encourage others to never give up on dreams no matter how big or small they are. This enthusiastic author lives in the sunny state of California in her enchanged Spanish-style home. She has has a BA in language and cultures and loves all things Italian. Her passion for travel, indulging in coffee or gelato at cafés, and dancing are just a few of the things she loves… besides squirrels.

Hello and thanks for stopping by Monique.  Your book, "When Two are Alike," seems to have been germinating in you for quite some time. Describe for us the event that finally propelled you into writing and illustrating it?

Since I was a kid I always loved drawing characters and making up stories. I saved and cherished the drawings of my characters. They have been with me since I was a kid. I loved making up stories about them which all took place in my head and finally, after high school, I decided to turn those stories into a children’s book.

After you committed to writing it, about how long did it take to get it completed?

It took me six years due to my travels and educational pursuits. Over the course of six years, mixed with traveling and schooling, I was able to develop my story into what it is today.

Many authors experience a “fear factor” when they embark on a writing project. Tell us about your own experience.

I had many moments along the way when I questioned myself, will I ever finish and, if I do finish, will I become a reputable author?

This sounds like a wonderful children's book. What age group or grade level is, "When Two are Alike," appropriate for?
​
The age range is 4-8 years, but my theory is that children’s books could be enjoyed by people of all ages. There's a kid in every one of us.
 
Did you know all along that you wanted to self-publish, or did you consider going the conventional route?
   
In the beginning I wanted to take the conventional route because, at that time, that is all that I knew. Out of the same curiosity that helped me write When Two Are Alike, I began to explore self-publishing which would, and did, give me total control over my finished work.
 
Were you intimidated at all about going the self-publishing route?

No because I knew that I would always be in total control of my characters and their stories.

How did Christopher J. Lynch’s self-publishing seminar help you?

Christopher's seminar opened my eyes to the potential in self-publishing, and helped me become more confident in taking the self-publishing route.

What are your plans for promoting the book?

So far I have promoted my book on social media platforms such as Facebook and Instagram and through word of mouth which started with my family and friends. My next steps for promoting my book includes sharing my story with local libraries, schools, and book events. 

How do you feel now that you have a book published?

I am ecstatic! This is such a huge accomplishment and I couldn’t be happier with myself!

Any advice for aspiring writers, either in the children’s book category or otherwise?

To all aspiring writers, keep writing! Work on your story little by little, every chance you get, embracing it and always remembering to enjoy this wonderful journey called writing.
 
What’s next for you?

Continue writing and illustrating Milton’s adventures in a series called Squirrely Squirrel Books. 

Well thanks again for sharing your amazing story with us Monique. You can order Monique Bowman's book, When Two are Alike, by clicking here

And you can follow her on her FB page 

Or at her website: www.moniquebowman.com 

    Hello everyone.
   Below you can read the story that was grand prize winner in my inmate writing contest. The students and I had so much fun doing it - and there were so many positive responses from readers - I think I'm going to make it an annual event. 
    Swept Away, by Chris Moore is unique among the entries as it was truly a short story created out of thin air. There are some prison elements to it, but it is mostly a fiction tale set in a fictional prison.
    For his accomplishment as the number one story, Mr. Moore will have a character named after him in my next One Eyed Jack book, Blue Chip.
    But enough about that, sit back and enjoy Swept Away by Chris Moore!

​“Let the sea roar, and the fulness thereof; the world, and they that dwell therein.” PSALM 98:7

                                              SWEPT AWAY
                                                       By
                                                Chris Moore


3:37 P.M. – San Francisco, California
    It struck with ample warning. The colossal wave of seawater surged through the meandering, rush-hour streets of downtown San Francisco, lugging cars and trolleys through the city like children’s toys.
    Mother Nature was reclaiming the coastal metropolis for herself, clawing at the compact city with giant, avenging hands that raked parts of San Francisco into the sea and, with malicious cruelty, reached back into the town for more. 
   Wave after enormous wave blitzed the hapless coast as far inland as two miles, and the receding seawater, as tall as two-storied houses, foamed and fizzled like gallons of spilled soda—dragging people, pets and debris out into the open sea. Others clinged to anything they could to keep from being swept away. 

EARLIER THAT DAY – THE ALASKAN COAST
    The Alaskan air was crisp; the sky, cloudless and the sun shone with noon-like radiance. The sea’s swells licked and lapped the coastal shores like playful puppies while sullied gulls squawked and glided in tight, hungry circles above the frigid waters.
    The coast was more cliff than beach; more snow than sand, and the awaiting sunset—the Northern Lights—would eventually cast the entire Alaskan sky in swirling rainbows that danced like sweltering flames.

                                                   ***

    Three miles beneath the surface calm, in the black, abysmal depths along the Continental Shelf, the earth ripped and then shook—sloshing enough seawater to fill the Great Lakes, twice and sending it surging through the Pacific Ocean like a trampling herd of Bison. 

                                                  ***

9:03 A.M. – 2000 MILES AWAY, NEW ALCATRAZ STATE PRISON, SAN FRANCISCO BAY    
   On a small, rocky island off the coast of San Francisco, a speckled seagull nipped greedily at a half-eaten halibut outside a razor-wired fence surrounding California’s newest prison for women. 
    Alcatraz, the infamous penitentiary that once housed notorious prisoners like Al Capone and Machine Gun Kelly, was a ghost of its former self. The State had purchased the landmark site, demolished the old federal prison known as “The Rock” and had built a state-of-the-art prison complex where the old one once stood, renaming it New Alcatraz. It was heralded, like Alcatraz, to be escape-proof and was designed to incarcerate forever the State’s most dangerous women. 
    “The Iron Rock” was its new moniker and from the air, it looked like a steel landing platform with five Millennium Falcons parked evenly in a half circle that, by design, formed a dirt courtyard where inmates could exercise. At times of unrest, prison guards—dressed like green storm troopers—marched in ominous formation while inmates—rebels in blue jumpsuits—desperately ran for cover.
    At times of peace, on mornings of thick, coastal fog, New Alcatraz looked like an abandoned space settlement drifting on an asteroid through clouds of nebula in a sea of deep blue space.

                                                     ***

    Inside, ten inmates and four staff members gathered in a small classroom in the prison’s administration building. 
    “I can’t do it anymore,” cried Whining Wanda, an aging convict who was battling breast cancer and was serving her thirty-fifth year in prison for killing her abusive husband.
     “I’m sick of doing time. I’m sick of being sick,” she rambled on. “I can’t do this anymore—I just can’t. I wish I—,” a small voice quickly interjected from across the room.
     “Don’t say it,” the voice pleaded. “Please, don’t say it.”
Whining Wanda nodded quietly, rocking back and forth in a metal folding chair that faced the group—her knees together, her hands trembling.
    “Why,” Judgmental Judy, the group’s critic demanded. Severe fault-finding, a symptom of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, was what led Judgmental Judy to kill a woman in a bar fight several years ago. Even in her late sixties, she was strong and had a penchant for fighting, a trait she inherited from the time she served honorably in a M.A.S.H. unit during the Vietnam War.  Now, in a twist of fate, she found herself battling a cancer that was as pugnacious and judgmental as she was.
    “Why what,” retorted Freedom Florence, her tone challenging, tension building between the two. Freedom Florence was the consummate protector of the group and was quick to run to the aid of the weak. No one knew what terrible deed she had committed to end up in prison, but it didn’t matter. She had earned the respect and admiration of those around her, except for a few.
   “Why shouldn’t she say it,” replied Judgmental Judy, clearly annoyed. “Why should she keep it all bottled up inside of her. It’s how most of us feel anyway, so why shouldn’t she say it?”
     Joyful Jenny, the one who had asked Whining Wanda not to say it, looked over at Freedom Florence with wide, curious, expecting eyes. At four-feet-six, Joyful Jenny was the smallest of the group members and was just ten years old. She was one of three special child visitors in the group: Jealous Jessie, her slightly taller twin and Brave Brittany, her best friend in the whole wide world. All of them were fighting deadly cancers and all of them were losing the battle, their petite bald heads evidence of failed radiation treatments and chemo therapies.
   Their visits were part of a year-long pilot program dubbed, “Women For Honor” that sought to bring sick children together with sick prisoners with the far away hope of unearthing the precious oil of inner healing.
    It took the Cancer Institute and prison administrators seven years to start the program, and after only one year of weekly meetings, the program was now in jeopardy. The shifting political climate on crime gave prison management the excuse they needed to shut it all down: the group’s progress was inconclusive and fell suspiciously short of the expectations set by prison officials, not to mention the safety of the children. Still, like devoted protesters of the Civil Rights movement, the group met every single week. 
   “Because they’re children. That’s why,” Freedom Florence answered emphatically, looking at the three girls sitting together. Her gaze softened, lingering on Joyful Jenny for just a moment longer than the others. Perhaps it was because Joyful Jenny was so little and wearing mechanical leg braces that made her seem more vulnerable than the other two, or maybe it was that she reminded her so much of her own daughter—a daughter from whom she had been exiled for the past twenty years. 
    Freedom Florence turned away, emotions creeping in. Children, she thought, innocent children who had been unfairly afflicted with the world’s most deadly disease and for what? To what end? She would gladly sacrifice herself and bear all of their illnesses, giving them all a chance to live long, healthy, happy lives. After all, she was guilty—her life marred forever by a single, horrible act. Then, that voice, that small voice caught her attention, bringing her out of her self-reproaching inner soliloquy.
     “We shouldn’t—” Joyful Jenny began, speaking so softly that she had to clear her throat and start again.“We shouldn’t say it because it’s not true.”
    “Why don’t you think it’s true, Jenny.” This time it was the prison’s psychiatrist, Dr. Ann. The group insisted on calling the doctor by her adjective name, Analytical Ann, but she refused to be addressed that way. “It’s inappropriate,” she would say.
    Everybody in the group was required to have an adjective name—an alliterative name that combines an adjective that describes a personality trait with a first name.
    “What do you mean it’s not true, Jenny,” the doctor repeated.
   Joyful Jenny looked at Whining Wanda with round, discerning eyes.
    “It’s not true because she wants to live.”
Whining Wanda nodded greedily, feasting on Joyful Jenny’s truth like a famished nomad.
    “She wants,” Joyful Jenny continued, “what we all so desperately want: Hope. The doctors tell me that I won’t be here come Christmas.” Joyful Jenny turned and looked solemnly at Healing Harriet, the oncologist from the institute who sat there with tears welling in her eyes.
    “They tell me that my courage is greater than my strength. But I would rather them tell me that I am as strong as I am courageous because through the strength of hope and love, I know we can all be healed.”
    Joyful Jenny redirected her gaze at Whining Wanda, her eyes deep and compassionate.
    “You are immeasurable love, Wanda. Please don’t let life’s short-lived miseries take that gift away from you.”
    Gloomy Gloria, a young, reticent prisoner who resembled a chubby Lucille Ball, covered her mouth and wiped her eyes, hiding tears and her astonishment at Joyful Jenny’s insightful and compassionate answer.
     Gloomy Gloria was a victim of pancreatic cancer. She was also a murderer by accomplice. During a home-invasion robbery, her partner in crime, senselessly murdered one of the occupants—the husband, and although she hadn’t killed anyone, the State saw to it that she shared equally in the guilt and in a lifetime of punishment. 
Gloomy Gloria was a manic and a depressant whose life was a dichotomy of two stories. Her right arm, decorated with artful tattoos, heralded her as a fighter, but her left arm, riddled with grizzly scars, accused her of being a quitter.
    “I love your answer, Jenny,” chimed Helpful Hanna, one of the two counselors from the institute who was also a successful writer that had published a best-selling novel entitled, One-Eyed Jackie, “but what about when bad things happen to you and you feel sad like Whining Wanda?”
    Joyful Jenny’s expression changed. Her eyes grew sad, her lips pursed in a way that only a child could purse them and her rosy cheeks grew rosier.
   “To me, sickness and the awful things that happen are not lifelong condemnations but are dreams that remind me that life is about healing and forgiveness. It makes me want to embrace life, not to let go of it.”
   The group was pin-drop silent. It was an incredibly simple answer, uncomplicated by the hamartia of grown-up reasoning.

                                                    ***
​
9:47 A.M. – D-BLOCK, NEW ALCATRAZ PRISON
    In the main living quarters of the prison, inmates milled about. Some playing cards, others just standing around, all of them wearing blue jumpsuits with the words, “CDCR PRISONER” stenciled on the back of their uniforms in large, yellow lettering.
    This group of prisoners lived in one of the five buildings that looked like a Millennium Falcon—a two-story concrete structure that curved in a half circle at the back and tapered to a V-shape point at the front. Small, two-person cells lined the rear, rounded portion of the unit and extended two hundred seventy degrees toward the guard’s station at the front, giving the sentries a clear, unobstructed view of all fifty cells. 
     A second story, inner-observation tower was built into the front of the building and was posted by an armed guard who could shoot any target inside or outside of the unit. The cavernous space inside the building was referred to as the “dayroom” and was where inmates regularly assembled for recreational activities.
     A group of inmates had gathered to watch a recorded episode of Orange is the New Black on a wall–mounted television in the dayroom. They laughed and made crude comments. Ten minutes into the show, a breaking news banner flashed across the screen. A news anchor urgently reported the breaking headline. 
   “A nine-point-six earthquake was registered off the coast of Alaska. The epicenter was thousands of feet beneath the ocean. Tsunami warnings have been issued for Pacific coastal areas and are to remain in effect for the next twenty-four hours. We’ll have more on this late-breaking event.”
    Dozens more curious inmates gathered to watch. A young, tattooed gang member with braids called Scrappy asked, “Hey, are we part of the coastal areas?”
    Several prisoners turned with scowls on their faces that read, “What are you, stupid? Yeah, we’re part of the coastal areas. Duh!” Yet, for all of their collective brilliance, not one of them realized the horrible catastrophe that was heading their way. 
    The television suddenly went black and a collective “aw” rose from the group of inmates. An awkward silence followed. Static crackled over the Public Address system and a guard’s voice commanded all the inmates to return to their cells.
     The inmates were complying with the command until a terrifying realization crashed into Scrappy like a massive wave. “Hey,” Scrappy shouted, “the tidal wave is coming this way!”
    Tidal wave was a misnomer. Most people imagine a tidal wave as a towering wave that sweeps inland and causes a great loss of life. In truth, tidal waves are often small, harmless waves that fluctuate with tidal conditions, hence the name tidal wave.
    Tsunami, Japanese for “harbor wave,” on the other hand, is a giant wave spawned by an undersea earthquake or other event. In the open ocean it may take the form of successive waves, traveling up to five hundred miles per hour and at a deceptive height of only three feet. As it approaches the coastal shallows, tsunamis slow down and grow to enormous heights and become the gargantuous wall of water depicted in Hollywood movies.
    Mental lightbulbs, one by one, began flickering on in the rest of the prisoners. Someone yelled, “They’re gonna lock us all up and leave us here to die!”
    More commands were given for the inmates to lock up. More inmates joined the uproar. Then, all hell broke loose.

                                                       ***

10:13 A.M. – ADMINISTRATION BUILDING
    Freedom Florence broke the silence. “I had a dream last night.”
    “What kind of dream,” Whining Wanda asked.
    “I was falling, but I wasn’t afraid. Someone was holding my hand on the way down. It seemed like I was falling forever, then I landed softly on a blue cloud.”
    She looked around to see the group’s reaction, but there was none.
    She went on. “I don’t know what it all means, but in my dream, I felt truly free for the first time in my life. I mean really free.”
     Judgmental Judy rolled her eyes.
  “Love is knocking on your door,” Joyful Jenny responded. “Answer it and you will find the love that cast out fear and it will set you on a soft eternal cloud of freedom and truth.”
  Judgmental Judy had endured enough. “Stop it with the philosophical BS. The truth is that we’re all locked-up doing life, we’re all sick and we’re all going to die in this miserable rat hole. And don’t think for a minute—”
     The prison’s alarm started blaring. Something was wrong.
     The doctor and both counselors stood up, checking outside the room for signs of a disturbance.
  Fearful Frances began fidgeting in her chair, her hands sweating. 
     “Does anyone have an Oreo cookie,” she asked weakly.
    The group shook their heads, unaffected by her unusual request. They understood her peculiar reaction. Whenever Fearful Frances became scared, she would always ask for the same thing: an Oreo cookie. Occasionally, she would get one but most of the time she was forced to deal with her fear without one. Either way, it was just Fearful Frances’ strange, almost humorous, way of coping with her own trepidation.
   An ear-piercing scream came from down the hallway, just outside the room. Everyone jumped.
Freedom Florence scurried over to Joyful Jenny and knelt beside her. 
    The doctor locked the door and returned to the group.
   “Look, something’s going on,” Dr. Ann began. “We’re going to stay put until we know what’s going on or until we get instructions. Okay?”
     The group nodded.
Outside, the staccato sound of automatic gunfire could be heard and the building rattled under the deafening booms of flash grenades. The acrid smell of pepper spray began seeping into the room.
    Several group members began to cough, their eyes watering under the stingy effects of loose mace.
    A cacophony of sounds was taking place in the hallway just outside the room. Screams and shouts, commands and orders, and none of it made any sense. Then, the dreadful sound of multiple struggles—grunts and shrieks—and soon after, gunfire.
Brave Brittany and Fearful Frances began sobbing hysterically.     Others strained to contain their fright.
      Dr. Ann got on her cell phone. She spoke and hung up.
Freedom Florence gathered the children into her arms to form a tight circle.
    The door shook, its knob rattled and a fist pounded desperately for entry. 
    There were more shouts, more struggles and more gunfire. The door stopped clattering and an eerie silence followed. 
   Everyone in the room was afraid to move. Freedom Florence quietly ushered the children into the safest corner of the room, away from any sudden breach of the door. The rest of the group followed.
   The room that held them was windowless, a concrete bunker buried deep inside the prison’s command center where, like a bomb shelter, they could hear the muffled explosions of warfare. 
    They sat on the floor in a semicircle looking like a battered group of survivors from a plane crash and for the first thirty minutes no one said a word. They just listened to the carnage taking place outside the walls.
    The group began to make small talk. Their talk evolved into laughter and their laughter turned into sadness. Soon their sadness became resentment; their resentment turned into anger and anger turned into shouting and fighting. Like a vicious cycle, crying and forgiveness came last and then it started all over again. All of it was an attempt to distract themselves from the insanity waiting just beyond the walls. But the war on the other side would not be ignored. 
     The sound of exploding grenades and screams jolted the group back into silence.
   It was difficult to imagine that guards had lost control of the prison, but the screech of rubber soles against a polished floor—the sound of a lone inmate skipping down the ruinous hallway, shouting the lyrics of songs from the sixties and rapping the walls with a guard’s baton—was sufficient proof that the unthinkable had happened.
     It was five long, tortuous hours before Dr. Ann’s cell phone rang. She listened, nodded and hung up.
     Dr. Ann turned and looked anxiously at the door. Six times had someone tried desperately to enter. The last time was over an hour ago.
      Dr. Ann turned to the group, their eyes pleading for an answer.
    “There’s a tsunami headed toward the west coast,” she began. “Evacuations have been ordered for all coastal cities but widespread panic has made it almost impossible. The inmates at the prison have risen up—”
     “Damn right!” Judgmental Judy interjected.
    “We have to make our way to the roof where we’ll be safe and can wait for help,” Dr. Ann finished.
   “There’s a stairwell just down the hall that accesses the roof,” spouted Silly Sandra. They all agreed to stay together and made their way to the door. 
   They huddled together, crouching through the smoky corridor where bodies of inmates and guards littered the floor. Shrieking alarms blared incessantly and rapid fire gunshots could be heard in the distance. Somewhere, a roar of inmates erupted with more crackle of gunfire. 
     They reached the stairwell to the roof.
Joyful Jenny wrapped her arms around Freedom Florence’s neck, her crippled legs dangling like loose shoestrings over Freedom Florence’s straining arms.
    Three flights of stairs was all that stood between them and the roof where they would be safe from the violence and they would wait for help. Joyful Jenny wheezed and coughed erratically and Freedom Florence quickly covered her mouth with a T-shirt.
     “Hang in there, baby,” Freedom Florence urged.
They had reached the roof and a helicopter could be heard whirring in the distance. They stood on the rooftop, wildly waving their arms in the air.
    The aircraft was a police helicopter and several, heavily-armed SWAT officers were perched, like hawks, on both sides of the chopper.
    As they made their approach, the officers pointed at the children and waved everyone else away. Freedom Florence gently laid Joyful Jenny on the ground and stepped away.
     “Don’t leave me, Florence,” Joyful Jenny begged.
    “I have to go, baby, but I’ll see you again. I promise.”
    “Promise,” Joyful Jenny asked.
   Freedom Florence nodded with tears in her eyes, her clothes flailing in the chopper’s draft.
   The helicopter landed and the SWAT team dismounted, rifles pointed. They grabbed the children and ushered the counselors and doctors onto the waiting chopper. Freedom Florence took a step forward. An officer pointed his weapon at her head.
     “Get down! Get down, now!”
   Freedom Florence and the rest of the inmates got on their knees, hand behind their heads.
    The SWAT team quickly retreated to the helicopter, guns still pointed. The lifting chopper rose haphazardly into the air and then banked up and away.
   Joyful Jenny looked down at the roof. She could see the approaching wave in the distance stalking the prison like a giant crocodile. She let out a bloodcurdling scream that went unheard, drowned out by the popping rotor blades.
   Joyful Jenny watched in horror as the massive wave hit the prison with a roar. Freedom Florence was still on the rooftop, kneeling with outstretched arms when the wave swallowed her pleading body and the entire prison in one enormous bite.
     Everything had been swept away.

                                                  ***

ONE YEAR LATER – SOMEWHERE IN THE PACIFIC
    The sun hung in a velvety, azure sky like a glittering diamond, beaming warm sunrays on a tiny island that was rich in lush, mountainous foliage. Brisk gales wafted the salty scent of ocean through the island’s thick, green flora while streams of fresh water coalesced at a cliff’s edge and spilled over the side into a blue lagoon thirty feet below.
    A couple stood at the cliff’s edge, their hands linked together like connecting cables and their eyes lost in each other’s dreamy gaze.
   “I now pronounce you united in Holy matrimony,” a voice said solemnly.
   Tears flowed down Freedom Florence’s face, her gown fluttering in the wind. 
    She looked from her soulmate to the two people standing next to her and stifled an urge to cry, letting out, instead, a tearful chuckle. Her daughter, Florina, smiled and reached out to her for a hug.
     Her dream had finally come true. 
Natives serenaded the couple’s union with hand drums that rapped a catchy, Caribbean tune.
    “Three,” a voice began counting down. 
   Freedom Florence looked at the bright, orange life vest strapped to her chest. She didn’t know how to swim, but that was okay. She had never felt safer in all her life.
    “Two.”
    The couple turned and faced one another, reuniting their dreamy gaze. The drumbeat gradually became louder, rising into a crescendo.
     “One.”
    Freedom Florence closed her eyes, whispered to herself and with her mate, leapt off the edge of the waterfall, descending toward the lagoon below. 
     Her whispers turned into talk as she fell over the side. She had been reciting the adjective names of the unforgettable friends that had, for so long, touched her life—a tribute to their lives, their struggles and their search for freedom.
    “Whining Wanda, Gloomy Gloria, Silly Sandra, Loveable Linda, Insightful Isabel, Helpful Hanna, Analytical Ann, Fearful Frances, Angry Alexis, Dramatic Dorothy, Brave Brittany, Jealous Jessie…”
     She opened her eyes, still falling; the thoughts about the loss of her friends falling with her and whispered the last of the endearing names: Joyful Jenny, who was standing over the edge of the cliff with Florina, watching her descend and splash into the water below.

                                                       ***

“The LORD on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty wave of the sea.” PSALM 93:4

EPILOGUE
    SWEPT AWAY is a fictional story that is based on the amazing things that I have seen and heard in the creative writer’s workshop hosted by Christopher Lynch. It was a privilege to build a moving and dramatic story that conveyed a message of hope, but also incorporated elements of personal experiences from the classmates themselves.
   SWEPT AWAY is both a literal and an allegorical story. In a literal sense, it is a story about a group of women and children who struggle with illness and incarceration in a prison setting, when suddenly, their lives are threatened by a catastrophic tsunami that strikes the prison. It ends with two of the characters being reunited on a tropical island and living out their dreams. 
    Allegorically, it is a story that symbolizes the deeper truths of the criminal justice system and the inextinguishable human drive to persevere and discover hope.
    New Alcatraz represents, not just a single prison, but an entire criminal justice system built on a rock of old, draconian precepts that seeks to incarcerate people far more than it seeks to free them, and treats the incarcerated with cruel indifference—expendable objects—rather than irreplaceable human beings with limitless potential.
    The group represents prisoners everywhere who struggle to find change and also the many facets of the human condition. Cancer is the incurable and fatal stigma placed on those who are incarcerated and upon those who attempt to help them. 
    The children symbolize the deep, nagging, insightful truths of our inner child. It is that part of us where forgiveness, love and compassion lie locked away in a cage of tragic experiences and can only be unlocked by the key of recognizing our own childhood innocence.
    The tsunami represents ‘change’ and how it rumbles in the deep recesses of our being, rippling through us and sweeping us away into a new life—a life with new meaning and a new way of thinking. Like tsunamis, ‘change’ comes in waves, washing away old habits that we often fight to hold on to. It is something we see coming from afar, but there is little we can do to avoid it until it is right upon us and crashing into us with life’s transformative power. Nothing is ever the same after a tsunami.
    The tropical ending symbolizes…FREEDOM.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR
    Chris Moore, whose own adjective name is Caring Chris, is an aspiring writer and a strong advocate of criminal justice reform. Chris is serving his tenth year of a Life sentence under the Three Strikes Law and in the last several years, he has discovered the transformative and healing power of creative writing.
​    His stories are often set inside a prison and are meant to enrich the lives of its readers with engaging plots, dynamic characters, profound dialogue and deep, provocative themes. Chris has helped instruct a creative writing class in prison and in his spare time, he is a barber, an athlete, a chess player and a friend who helps others rediscover their own capacity for compassion and hope.

Chris is currently incarcerated in the California State Prison at Post Office Box 4430 in Lancaster, California 93539. His prison ID number is AK6450.

                                             RULE 10
                                                  By
                                      Damon R. Matthews

    It was 2 a.m. when they pulled into the maximum security prison. With shackles clamped painfully around his wrists and ankles, Brian Kilgor peered aimlessly from the windows of the stuffy bus, eager to get a cell and a mattress after a miserable eight-hour ride. The cold, dark California desert matched the mood of the human cargo. Serving year twelve of a sixteen-year sentence for armed robbery, Brian prepared himself for the drama and hate that followed him from prison to prison like a sadistic shadow. 
    Before his arrest, Brian was a rebellious eighteen-year-old gang member who enjoyed being one of the guys in his sunny, crime-riddled San Diego neighborhood. However, after his arrest he experienced a different dynamic amongst his rowdy homeboys. In jail, he learned that there was less of a laid back camaraderie and more of a structured pecking order with consequences for rule breakers. 
    This really rubbed Brian the wrong way. He didn’t appreciate having to answer to a fellow gang member just because he was new to the jail system. He decided to do everything in his power to make a name for himself so he could be the one giving orders, not taking them. Being one of the guys was no longer enough. 
    Brian was convicted and shipped off to prison one year after his arrest. He knew ascending to the top of the gang food chain required violence. Brian had that covered thanks in large part to a physically and sexually abusive father. However, the proper timing of his violent outburst is what set him apart. Attacking a guard in full view of influential gang bangers or inciting racial riots, “just because,” were a couple of tactics Brian employed. He even extorted weaker crews, taking their drugs under the pretext that he would pay for it, only to stiff them and distribute the dope to his own homeboys. These calculated and often impulsive acts made his name known on general population yards throughout the State. He became respected and admired by his clique, and feared and despised by rivals. Eight years into his sentence Brian had achieved Alpha Dog status.
    That was then. Today, Brian’s rock star treatment is all but gone. Now the thirty-year-old is considered a pariah. Previously his arrival to a new yard prompted generous care packages from his homeboys. Now he was lucky if he was afforded basic respect. Worst of all, he’s no longer worthy of the customary small handwritten note (often called a “kite”) listing all friends and foes on the yard. As perks go, that was Brian’s favorite. A man cannot become a top butcher without getting blood on his hands. Having that list kept him in the know as to who he may have to confront; so arriving at the prison in the dead of night, without that kite to look forward to left Brian in the dark, literally and figuratively. There were occasions when he didn’t have to confront anyone; potential targets would voluntarily go into protective custody (“PC”) to avoid his wrath. 
    ‘What a difference four years makes,’ Brian thought, as he and the rest of society’s rejects were herded off the bus like degenerate sheep. These days it’s him entertaining the idea of going PC. Barely paying attention to the guards’ profanity-laced orders to keep quiet and form a tight, straight line, Brian reminisced about the night when all of his prison troubles began. 

    Four Years Earlier….
    Relaxing in his cell watching television, Brian was enjoying a rarity in California’s notoriously overcrowded prisons—a night in general population without a cellmate (aka “cellie”). His previous cellie paroled two nights prior, and with the State’s prison population bursting at the seams, Brian was sure he’d get a new one the same night. Instead, the gods of solitude smiled down and allowed the ‘King’ to have his broom closet sized castle to himself for a second consecutive night. 
    Tipsy off of inmate made alcohol (“pruno”), and stoned thanks to a small amount of smuggled in weed, Brian was in the middle of flubbing yet another “Wheel of Fortune” puzzle when the steel cell door rumbled open.
    Brian quickly downed the bitter drink he was nursing—a precaution just in case a guard was approaching the cell. He got up to investigate. He wanted his gang tattoos on display just in case a new cellmate was coming, so he decided not to put on a shirt. He positioned his athletic six-foot-two frame at the threshold of the door to block the entrance, preparing to vet the potential new cellie. This posturing was done more out of obligation than defiance. Although gangs are similar in that they all have unwritten rules, in prison a lot of gangs—including Brian’s, have rules that are actually written. Often referred to as a “Constitution,” these rules are numerous and very strict.
    Along with the ubiquitous “No Snitching” (Rule 1) and “No backing down from a fight” (Rule 8), there is also a laundry list of do’s and don’ts regarding cell behavior. “Allowing someone mentally unstable to move into your cell” is also a no-no (Rule 12). These rules were established long before Brian came to prison. Now that he was a leader of his clique on that particular yard, not only did he have to follow them, he had to punish those who didn’t. The punishment could range from mandatory exercise to being stabbed.
    To those on the outside looking in, some of these rules may seem petty and odd, (Rule 15) “No hanging your feet from the top bunk while your cellie is on the lower bunk”—but in the volatile world of maximum security prison, these Constitutions are effective at keeping violence down.
    The last thing Brian wanted was a buzz-killing confrontation. He looked out of the cell hoping to see one of his homeboys. What he saw instead was a dude he didn’t know heading his way carrying a bed roll. Brian sized up the guy—slim, fit, maybe six feet tall and no visible tattoos. ‘I can take him,’ he thought to himself. Gangbangers put out a certain aggressive energy when meeting other gang members for the first time. Brian did not detect that energy in this guy. 
    With guards watching from their posts and inmates looking on from their cells, the unit fell silent with anticipation. Brian was fully prepared to put on yet another violent show if the situation called for it. The guy walked up to the shirtless gangbanger, smiled and extended his right hand for Brian to shake. Still blocking the entrance, Brian shook the guy’s hand and asked two of the most commonly-asked questions prisoners pose to one another upon meeting. The first being, “what do they call you?” Most convicts have monikers, and asking a guy “What’s your name?” comes off as narc-like. He told Brian that he went by the name “D2.” 
    Brian’s follow-up question was, “where are you from?” This seemingly innocent query is often considered challenging or threatening because if the person being asked answers by naming a rival neighborhood, he may have a fight on his hands…or worse. In the streets sometimes punches are thrown or bullets start flying if the guy even hesitates to answer. So the “Where are you from?” question automatically puts a guy on the defensive; gangbangers hate that. Brian knew this but he didn’t care. He was in full intimidation mode.
    D2 didn’t seem to notice. He told Brian he was from Fairfield, a small city in Northern California not known for crime. Brian found it weird that the guy was sporting a goofy smile. Chalking it up to nervousness, he allowed the man to move in with no objections, prompting the guards to relax, and the other inmates to go back to whatever they were doing in their cells; there would be no show tonight. 
    Once D2 unpacked and settled in, Brian courteously offered him some weed and pruno. D2 was more than willing to indulge. The two spent the next couple of hours getting loaded and talking about their backgrounds. Brian learned that D2 was four years older, loved reading and watching movies set in medieval times. Brian also learned that his new cellie never came across a drug he didn’t try at least twice.
    D2 had a naïve, child-like fascination with the gang lifestyle. This amused Brian. D2 reminded him of the nerdy character, ‘Carlton Banks,’ from the television sitcom, “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.” Brian found it refreshing to be in a cell with a square for a change. He didn’t have to be hyper vigilant, worrying about constitutional rules. D2 surprised Brian when he produced some much more potent weed for them to enjoy. For the first time in a long while Brian didn’t mind having a cellie.
    Days passed and Brian noticed something different about his new cellie. Brian was used to being around cutthroats and hardened criminals—D2 was the polar opposite. He was an average working class citizen in society who got caught up in California’s draconian Three Strikes Law. Done in by one too many drug convictions, D2 was a fish out of water doing 25 to Life instead of a much-needed rehab stint. But it was something about D2’s mannerisms and the way he spoke that struck Brian as…odd. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. 
    In prison, as one would imagine, there is plenty of idle time. Inmates spend a lot of that time reading. Whether fiction, non-fiction, law or religious text, prisoners read it all. However, no matter how many spiritual awakenings take place as a result of all of the voracious reading, at the end of the day, porn is still king. With no women around to scratch the itch, inmates clamor for nudie magazines.
    Brian was no different. He had a small stash of ‘smut’ that he thoroughly enjoyed—especially when he had no cellie. Brian was a star football player in high school, and this made him a bit of a ladies man. Although girls were all over him, Brian, like a lot of other teenagers, was heavy into pleasuring himself to girly mags. Of course, he hid this shameful habit, convinced that he was the only one doing it regularly. 
    Somewhere along the way there came a point when imagining naked women wasn’t enough. Taboo thoughts started to invade his fantasies—thoughts his peers wouldn’t accept or tolerate. This only added to his shame. Around that time in his life Brian became more short-tempered, rebellious and a little less comfortable in his own skin.
    One day after he and D2 finished off a joint, Brian prepared to head out to the prison exercise yard on a cold and rainy morning. Prison guards in the gun towers must have a clear line of sight to quell acts of violence with their Mini-14 rifles; so the yard offered no overhead protection from the rain. Brian was guaranteed to come back to the cell soaked.
    Bewildered, D2 asked, “Why are you going out there when it’s raining like that?” Brian told him that under his gang’s Constitution it was “Mandatory that all homeboys go to the yard, rain, sleet or snow” (Rule 4). He explained how even during a time of peace, a riot could happen over something as small as a misinterpreted look; so all available hands had to be on deck. On his way out the door, Brian gave his cellie permission to look at his porn collection while he was gone, a common courtesy convicts show each other when they get along. A couple of hours later Brian returned drenched from the rain. D2 made no mention of the porno magazines.
    Days later, on his way to a dental appointment at the prison infirmary D2 gave Brian a fat joint and gave him permission to look at his stack of smut as well. Feigning anger, Brian chided D2 for not offering him a look sooner. D2 laughed it off.
    “Your collection is so vanilla, I figured you wouldn’t know what to do with my stack,” D2 stated with a sly smile.
    The term “vanilla” went over Brian’s head but he was too self-conscious to ask D2 what he meant by it. After D2 headed out to see the dentist, Brian sparked up the joint and began eagerly flipping through the large stack of skin magazines. A few pages into the first magazine it began to dawn on Brian as to what D2 meant when he called his small collection of porn “vanilla.”
    Brian was accustomed to the standard ‘Penthouse’ fare, but what he was looking at now was…different. Better. Maybe the weed was making it more intense. Yes, there was the usual content Brian favored (i.e. naughty nurses, Far East geishas and black women with shapely derrieres), all of which are popular in prison. However, as he sat there gawking at large-breasted women engaging in various sex acts with men and women, Brian noticed something. Some of the women performing lewd, dirty acts weren’t women at all. They were dudes!
    “What the fuck?!” he muttered out loud. Shocked, yet transfixed, Brian continued to flip through page after page. He loved women—slept with plenty of them prior to his incarceration but Brian could not deny it, he found those triple X images hot. In fact, he couldn’t recall ever being that excited. Once again, just as it was when he was a teenager, Brian was alone—pleasuring himself. 
    Minutes after his marijuana enhanced climax, Brian’s euphoria was replaced by guilt and shame. He also felt conflicted. Brian knew he had to get a new cellie as soon as possible. D2 was a cool dude, and Brian really didn’t want to kick him out, but the Constitution clearly states; “no gay cellmates and absolutely no homosexual acts of any kind” (Rule 10). 
    Questions raced through his mind. ‘Do I really have to switch cellies?’ ‘No straight person would be into this kind of shit, right?’ ‘Then what the hell does that make me?’
    When D2 returned from the dentist that day, Brian was feeling unsettled and awkward. He could not stop thinking about those magazines. He wanted to grill D2 about the smut but he couldn’t do so with conviction after what he had just done.
    Brian felt bamboozled. Had D2 been a transsexual or someone noticeably gay, Brian would have invoked Rule 10 immediately, even if it meant being thrown in ‘the hole’ for refusing a cellmate. Even though Brian enforced his gang’s Constitution regularly, the truth is he resented Rule 10. He always did. He saw how other cliques went as far as allowing sexual contact, with the caveat being the act had to be deemed “manly.” They subscribed to the twisted prison logic that performing fellatio on someone makes you gay, but being on the receiving end does not. To them, penetrating a willing transsexual or raping a vulnerable inmate is manly and something to brag about without being labeled a queer, but if you voluntarily allow another man to penetrate you, you’re the “F” word.
    Brian was simply curious. He kept his taboo desires to himself for years, even while sleeping with all of the football groupies and bad boy chasing girls in high school. He didn’t feel like a chick trapped in a dude’s body or anything weird like that. Nor did he want a same sex relationship; the thought repulsed him. Although his urges were strictly physical, Brian never sought out or even met anyone who made him want to explore that side of his sexuality. He didn’t have a type. Oddly enough, that all changed when he got busted and saw something he had never seen before.
    It happened while sitting in a crowded musty holding tank in the San Diego County Jail. Brian looked across a hallway to an adjacent holding tank, also packed with inmates waiting to be cuffed and bussed to their court appearances. As he scanned the miserable faces, something caught his eye. In the midst of thugs, mentally deranged and unkempt drug addicts sat a beautiful Latina with fire engine red hair and perky breasts, dressed in jailhouse scrubs like the male inmates. 
    He wondered why she wasn’t in the holding tank down the hall with the female inmates. She smiled seductively when she noticed Brian staring. He waved and returned the smile, thinking to himself, ‘I still got it.’ Confused and a little concerned for the chick’s safety, Brian asked the guys next to him why the guards put that “bad bitch” in a holding tank with murderers and rapists. The tank erupted in laughter. The guys had to explain to the clueless         Brian that the “woman” he was making goo-goo eyes at was a “punk,” a term Cali prisoners use when referring to transsexuals. 
Brian was mocked mercilessly by the other inmates that day. And although he was embarrassed, he was also mesmerized. From that day forward he became obsessed with the idea of being with one of them. He now had a type. 
    In prison, transsexuals are regularly victimized by other inmates, so they are often placed in protective custody. However, there were occasions when Brian would see them on general population yards. They’d give themselves female names, soften their voices and walk around the yard wearing make-up and altered clothing in an effort to look like women. Brian found the spectacle of it all distracting. It was bad enough the prison had real females (nurses, counselors, C/O’s, etc.) walking around that he lusted after but couldn’t have. Now there he was doing the same thing with the transsexuals.
    This frustrated him to no end because he had to do so covertly. The last thing he needed was for his homeboys to notice him ogling punks. After all, he had a reputation to establish. So he kept a safe distance and merely watched as other hard up prisoners propositioned the punks by offering food, money and protection in exchange for agreeing to move in with them. 
    D2 was not transsexual, but Brian now found himself in a cell with a guy who may very well be into dudes. All of D2’s idiosyncrasies began to pop up in Brian’s mind. The way D2’s natural baritone went up a few octaves when he would ask him for something. The odd hand gestures and the frequent compliments—all of these things were more pronounced whenever they smoked pot—and thanks to D2, they smoked a lot. Brian initially chalked it up to being around a square for the first time. Now, with a slightly paranoid perspective, he saw D2’s behavior as…effeminate, maybe? Then he thought, ‘Is that why the muthafucka was smiling at me when he moved in?!?’
    Every street smart instinct in Brian implored him to kick D2 to the curb immediately. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He kept finding excuses as to why there was no need. For starters, he genuinely liked D2 as a person. Plus there was still a possibility that the guy was straight. 
    A week after his initial solo tryst with the smut, the two of them had just finished getting high and Brian couldn’t hold his tongue any longer. He needed answers. “So what’s up with the punk magazines?” he asked.
    D2 laughed. Brian wasn’t sure why, but he just waited. D2 made no apologies. “They’re not punk magazines; as you can see I’m into all kinds of porn. I draw the line at animals and kid shit. But everything else is fair game.”
    “Are you gay?” Brian asked.
    “I wouldn’t label myself that. Matter of fact I wouldn’t label myself at all,” D2 stated bluntly. Brian fell silent. D2 went on, candidly admitting to sleeping with both men and women during his drug fueled past. He explained, “a person cannot prevent their bodies from being attracted or responding to someone, whether male or female.” He caught Brian off guard when he told him he was attracted to masculine men, not the “garden variety penitentiary punk.” Brian knew right then that D2 was interested in him. 
    Ignoring his inner censor, Brian, for the first time ever, confided in another human being and spoke about his secret attraction. “If I were to fuck around it would have to be with someone who looked like a bitch.” He and D2 didn’t have the same friends so Brian figured it was safe to tell him. Although D2 didn’t share the same attraction—he found transsexuals “ridiculous,” he made it a point not to judge.
    While Brian struggled to suppress his urges and tried to train himself to keep his eyes off of the women wannabes on the yard, his cellie had no worries. Throughout his prison stint D2 had to be careful with whom he shared his sexual history. Convicts are not known for their tolerance, especially gangbangers. He had plenty of cellies that never knew about his porn stash. Over time, however, he became intuitive enough to discern who would be accepting of his sexual fluidity. To that point, he sized up Brian immediately. 
    Weeks before moving in, D2 spotted Brian standing in the weight pile clandestinely checking out the backsides of a gaggle of punks walking by. Brian had no idea that he was being watched and admired. He didn’t know D2 counted himself lucky when he was serendipitously moved into Brian’s cell. Brian had no clue that his new cellmate gave him access to his magazines, more for strategic reasons than mere jailhouse courtesy. He employed the same tactic with his seemingly endless supply of marijuana. Having been around drugs long enough D2 understood their uninhibiting effects. Brian lowered his guard and unloaded his secrets, not suspecting he was being wooed. This, along with D2’s low key disposition led Brian to give in to temptation. And although he kept the act “manly,” the fact of the matter was he broke Rule 10.

    Back to Present Day
    The booming voice of a guard brought Brian back from his trip down memory lane. Two and a half hours had passed since disembarking from the bus and now they were being assigned cells in the intake building. New arriving inmates are placed on orientation for a couple of weeks, during which time they are segregated from the general population, interviewed, classified and given the opportunity to go PC. This is done for legal reasons. Contrary to popular belief, the State doesn’t just throw inmates to the wolves without prisoner’s consent. 
    Brian was grateful to be housed with an elderly gentleman who knew nothing about his past. This allowed Brian to sleep easier, something he finds difficult since being crushed by a television during his slumber by one of his cellies who was scared, but obligated to do so.
    The following morning, Brian caught another break. He learned that all orientation inmates are fed in their cells rather than in the cafeteria. This allowed him to gather intel while remaining unseen by potential enemies. The hunted needs every advantage possible—stealth was Brian’s friend. Brian found out that his former homeboy, “Eddie G,” a guy he did dirt with years ago was calling shots on the yard. Brian knew Eddie G was fair and reasonable, and he felt like he actually had a chance to last for more than a few weeks on this yard without an attempt on his life. He also knew from experience how strong pressure is on leaders to punish rule breakers and earn stripes in front of their crew. Far too often peer pressure trumps fairness and reasoning. 
    Brian woke up early and went to the sink to wash up. He stared at his reflection in the mirror as his old cellie slept quietly a few feet away. Brian studied the once flawless tattoo on his chest. The name of his gang was printed in bold letters above his left pectoral muscle. Now, thanks to an attack from an assailant armed with a knife fashioned crudely out of scrap metal, part of one of the O’s in the word “BLOOD” was gone—replaced with ugly scar tissue. 
    Brian rubbed the two-year-old scar, thinking about the failed attempt on his life. He fingered a different scar on the back of his neck—the result of a razor attack a year later. Receiving battle scars from his own homies was the last thing Brian expected when he became Alpha Dog. Looking back, he also never imagined breaking one of the rules he swore to enforce.
    Every time he paused to reflect on his time in the cell with D2, the more bitter he became. Oddly enough, he wasn’t mad at his former homeboys for the repeated attacks. “Rules are rules,” he thought. Nor did he blame himself. Brian directed his anger squarely on one person: D2.
    Brian felt used and taken advantage of; a real blow to his manhood. However, that’s not why he was bitter. He willingly satisfied his curiosity; and enjoyed it too. No, Brian was bitter because D2 exposed him. Brian wasn’t sure who he told, or why. At first, he theorized D2 blabbed to a friend whom he mistakenly trusted with the secret. But not so deep down, Brian believed D2 did it with malicious intent because Brian was only interested in one thing, while D2 wanted more. Days after experiencing that one thing, Brian moved out of their cell and into a cell with one of his homeboys, pissing off D2 in the process.
    The homeboy he moved in with got wind of the egregious rule violation and ended up being the guy who tried to crush his skull with a television as he slept. Prison yards are like small towns—no secrets are safe.
    Brian realizes that it wasn’t worth it. He still had to wait a few more years before his parole date, and he considered going PC during his orientation interview. Not only would he escape the attacks, he’d also be able to live in a cell with whomever he pleased. However, in spite of his misstep, Brian still considered himself a badass. Going PC would feel like a bitch move and Brian wasn’t ready to give up on being rebellious. Yes, he was at war with his homeboys, but he’s won some of the battles. The guy who busted him over the head with the TV had to have eye socket surgery. The guy who sliced his neck lost a tooth before his back-up ran over and finished Brian off. 
    Happy and more than a little nervous to be off of orientation, Brian prepared for the yard. Fear of yet another beat-down, along with salacious thoughts of hooking up with a punk was urging Brian to go PC, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. So he decided to man-up and do what he’s been doing for the past four years. He made himself a knife and headed out to general population—ready to put on a show. 

                                             EIPLOGUE
    I have run across a lot of “Brians” while serving time. Creating his character—a guy who dare not act on his desires for fear of harm or ostracism—was bound to happen. The public likes to make “don’t drop the soap” jokes at prisoners’ expense, but in reality it does not happen behind the walls like that, mainly because of those fears. Sex in prison happens, but in most cases it is consensual and usually between people who sleep with men outside of prison and people like Brian. 
    While inmates like Brian are common, inmates like “D2” used to be an anomaly. Before California politicians scared voters into passing harsh, tough on crime laws, only hardened criminals were doing time. But with the “Three Strikes Law” passing, harmless citizens began to get caught up in the state’s dragnet. The D2s of the world were now getting life sentences for the pettiest of crimes. 
    As an ex-gang member and current anti-gang crusader, writing about the madness of that culture wasn’t much of a stretch; however, the overall subject of the piece was challenging. I want to thank those who encouraged me to continue when I was ready to scrap the project, and also give additional thanks to all of my interview subjects. Keep being yourselves, it looks good on you.

    Damon R. Matthews is an aspiring writer from Los Angeles, Calif. He spends his not-so-free time writing/performing songs and penning stories. In addition to being co-instructor of the institution’s Creative Writing Class, he earns extra money editing for fellow inmates. Poised to be liberated next year, Damon looks forward to meeting creative people, and networking with those who could assist in his reentry into society.

Today I am pleased to welcome author Stephanie Kato to my blog. Stephanie has attended several of my self-publishing seminars and has been on quite a journey to publish the first book in her steampunk series. Now, after lots of hard work, she has achieved her dream, and is willing to share her experience with us. 

Hi Stephanie, and thanks for sharing with us.

You're welcome.

Most people may be unfamiliar with the steampunk genre. Can you explain what Steam-punk is?

It’s a subgenre of science fiction that is traditionally set in an alternate version of the Victorian era or 19th century in general. Steampunk settings are much more advanced in technology than the historical 19th century. Readers frequently see industrialization, genetic engineering, political corruption, Victorianism, Romanticism, monsters, false utopias, time travel, and other fantasy elements. Some steampunk books take place in contemporary or futuristic settings too. These settings are often retro futures that reverted back to Victorian aesthetics and steam power. Sometimes, a post-apocalyptic event or cultural upheavals cause these retro futures. Steampunk is actually a derivative of another subgenre called cyberpunk. The “punk” element in steampunk is usually a cultural or political rebellion. Steampunk protagonists are often Romantic heroes who use their suffering and ideals to overcome obstacles. 

How long has this book been germinating in you?

Four or five years. Originally, I wrote murder mysteries, but the results disappointed me. So, I chose to use the same characters and themes in a different setting. I thought it might be interesting to reboot my series in a post-apocalyptic future. Then I needed to add more thematic material to make my books unique. I spent a long time researching various types of science fiction, ranging from cyberpunk, superheroes, space epics, and whatnot. Finally, I believed steampunk was the perfect setting because it gave my post-apocalyptic environment a chance to have a great Industrial Revolution for a better future. 

After you committed to writing it, about how long did it take to get it completed?

Not that long. I drafted the first three books in a year. The self-publishing process took around three months. Most of that time was spent on the editing and revisions.

What are the primary themes in your book?

In a way, my book is a twisted morality tale. Loyalty to allies is an essential theme in my book. Everyone needs help sometimes, so we should have each other’s backs. My book also reminds us that our lives could be much worse. In their darkest hours, my characters maintain the hope and courage to persevere. Disasters usually bring out the best or worst in people and you’ll also see that from my characters. Evolution is another interesting concept in my book and a common steampunk theme. Those who cannot evolve will be left behind in the dust. I’m sure readers will find other themes in my book, but those are some examples.  

Do you have any predictions for the future of steampunk?

I’m definitely seeing some trends that could lead to an interesting future. Steampunk is infiltrating mainstream entertainment and many people don’t even know it. Mad Max: Fury Road was a post-apocalyptic film that definitely had some steampunk influences. Fallout 4, the Borderlands series, and BioShock series are popular video games that also have some steampunk elements. Even the technology and costumes in superhero films are adapting some steampunk components. During the past few years, several steampunk works were set in post-apocalyptic or dystopian environments. This phenomenon is probably a reaction to current events, but that’s just my opinion. Remember how I said steampunk piggy backed on cyberpunk? Now it seems like other budding subgenres of science fiction are doing the same thing to steampunk. But that can be a discussion for another time. I’ll keep on eye several trends and post the results on my blog. 

It sounds like you really know your genre. Do you have any suggestions for budding steampunk writers? 

Research and a huge imagination are very important. I think most creative writing can benefit from research, but it’s absolutely necessary for steampunk. At the very least, I recommend some general research on the Victorian era, 19th century Romanticism, and western Industrial Revolutions. A writer will find many changes in technology, gender roles, fashion, socioeconomics, work forces, and more from 19th century history. Steampunk also requires a lot of world building and that’s why it’s important to have a vivid imagination. Include huge cities, elaborate clothing, technology that defies logic, and find creative ways to use steam power. A steampunk writer can create entire subcultures and species of creatures. Steampunk might sound like a demanding genre, but meek and understated won’t make the cut. 

And now, more about the publishing process itself. Were you intimidated at all about going the self-publishing route?

Yes. I didn’t know where to start. There are many vanity presses and self-publishing options, but I couldn’t tell who appeared authentic and professional. Most of the self-publishing packages were several thousand dollars. It seemed ridiculously expensive. However, self-publishing was probably my only option. The majority of authors who submit their work to traditional publishers usually receive rejection letters or hear nothing at all. Like everything else, I believe writers need connections to succeed with traditional publishing. 

How did Christopher J. Lynch’s self-publishing seminar help you?

It was a huge blessing. I didn’t have very much direction before attending his self-publishing seminar. From that moment on, I found a great book cover designer, editor, formatter, web designer, and more. Chris also gave awesome tips for marketing and using online communities. One of the things I learned is the value of networking and self-promotion. People aren’t going to buy and read my book if they don’t know it exists. It’s also important for young writers like me to connect with experienced authors. Being around reputable authors is a good way to strengthen my own writing and build connections.   

How do you feel now that you have a book published?

Fantastic! This is a very exciting time for me. I released my first book and it’s definitely a life changing experience. It gave me a great sense of accomplishment and I believe many readers will enjoy my book. However, it’s a double edged sword. Writing and self-promotion takes a lot of time, patience, and energy. It’s challenging to balance my day job, social time, rest and relaxation, writing, research, and marketing. 

What’s next for you?

There are a few things on my plate. I’m going to start revising my second book in the near future. It’s a continuation of my book series with the same main characters. In the fall, I’m going to attend my first Comic Con. That might sound silly, but it will be a good place for me to meet and network with other science fiction enthusiasts. I also want to find someone who can either make or order a couple steampunk outfits for me. Many steampunk fans attend conventions and engage in cosplay. So, it makes sense for me to become part of the steampunk community.

Well thank you so much for stopping by Stephanie.

You're very welcome Chris.

To purchase a copy of The Post-Apocalyptic Society click on the image above or here. 

You can contact Stephanie on her website:
http://www.stephaniekatoauthor.com

or on Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/stephkato

or follow her on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/stephanie.kato.12
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