The clickety-clack of the Trans-Siberia Railway was equally hypnotic and torturous. I woke up half-naked in my compartment, with a throbbing, two-day, drug-induced headache and a note taped inside my briefcase that read, “If I can do this, think of what the FSB and CIA are capable of.” My thoughts ran to self-preservation rather than the mind-numbing sounds.

So much of my odyssey had been a living combination of Monty Python meets Dr. Strangelove that I had almost forgotten I was dealing with superpowers, real people, and telling a secret that would change the world. I entertained the notion that if I could concentrate, the migraine would dissipate.

I reached for my backpack and pulled out my notes. I spread them on the bed and tried to make some sense of what I learned on my journey thus far. After sorting through them aimlessly for a while, I decided there had to be a system: put each prong of the story in one pile rather than trying to make a single, convoluted epic from four diverse groups who had no idea any of what the others were trying to do. The participants sounded like a bad joke. What if the Soviet Union, the US, a small European prince and an angelic African leader were all trying to save their countries at the same time?

The first portion of the story came from the data I had collected about the Russians-Soviets, as they were known at the time. I’d uncovered a lot of information about the inner-circle of the Kremlin. I read it and re-read it, unable to believe what I knew from experience was true. There was no way these megalomaniacal buffoons and paranoid apparatchiks could have run an empire that spanned major parts of three continents.

As was always the case, the worker bees were the competent ones, brave and able to work under pressure. Much of my information had come from former KGB operatives who had been involved all those years ago,

Damn, I kept thinking during the five-thousand-mile journey each way from St. Petersburg to Vladivostok, this can’t be true.

My piles of notes kept shifting with the movement of the train on antiquated tracks. I grumbled and stood, opening the door of my compartment to recapture the ones that slipped under the door.

A beautiful conductor bent over to help pick them up, and her skirt rode up to show spectacular legs. She smiled as she handed me the stack of papers. I struggled to remember my rudimentary Russian, finding her beauty distracting. “Are you writing a book?” she asked me with a brilliant smile.

Oh shit, had she read my notes? I swallowed against the sudden dryness in my throat. “No, I’m helping with some research for a university.”

“How interesting,” her eyes sparkled.

The train shimmied, and she fell into me. I wrapped an arm around her to steady her, or so I told myself. Her smile grew to almost feline proportions. Man, this was more of a test than any other I had thus far. I couldn’t cheat on my girlfriend. More importantly, no matter how cute she was, I couldn’t let this conductor see what I was doing. For all I knew, she could be FSB.

“Th-th-thanks. I need to get back to work,” I said, releasing her and clutching the notes to my chest.

“If I see your papers in the corridor again, I’ll knock on your door,” she smiled and walked away and into the next car.

I closed the door, sat on my small chair, and took a deep breath. Looking in the cabinet for water, I discovered only a bottle of vodka. I drank it straight from the bottle like a true Russian.

Fortified by the liquor, I returned to my review, starting on the next stack of notes: the scant of information referencing the United States. As I read through it, I couldn’t help but laugh. Doonesbury wasn’t a cartoon. It was a documentary.

I gagged on my next slug of cheap vodka. The idiots in charge of the United States were every bit as crazy as the Soviets.

I found that the American team left a land of Victoria’s Secret, Monday Night Football, and shopping malls for Russia, a country of perpetual gray skies, no hot water, and umbrella-wielding babushkas. The KGB was omnipresent, and the Americans could be shipped off to enjoy the Siberian winter if they were caught. Hell, if someone caught them, being sent to Siberia would have been downright lenient. I doubted any of the Americans would have made it to the next street corner. Stealing Soviet national secrets was understandable during the Cold War. But how could anyone have come up with this crazy plan?

I understood why the world’s superpowers were so frustrated and willing to try anything, but their plans weren’t what really ended the Cold War. In the geopolitical world, as in the real world, accidents often create the greatest results. I needed more vodka and sucked down a third of the bottle in one swig.

My notes blurred, and my head spun as I considered the two men central to my journey. The key players in this farce couldn’t be more different. No amount of vodka could possibly make this make any sense, but I had met them and knew all of this was real. Insane, wild, crazy, but real.

Of course, I had to change the names of countries other than America and the USSR. The names of the players had to change, also. For my own safety and the safety of everyone involved.

The next player in this mad story was President Mbangu of Madibu, who has often been considered a living saint. Hell, he’s known as The Great Man throughout the world. During a time when Africa suffered through brutal civil wars, dictatorships, corruption, and economic unrest, his idyllic island nation was poor and happy. He was a much better man than I ever could hope to be. However, his nation’s successes were waning and he had to come up with a way to turn Madibu’s fortunes quickly or chaos could ensue.

Although it was against his better angels, he tricked the U.S. and U.S.S.R., but no one lost, and his people benefitted greatly. How could he ever know that his beaches, hotels, a cargo/cruise ship port, rhesus monkeys and new-found libation production would help end the Cold War?

Mbangu’s friend, and polar opposite, was Prince Claude of Luxenstein. All anyone needed to know about him was his nickname: The Pied Piper of Pussy. As outrageous as it may sound, it was a gross understatement of his life. Casanova was a virgin compared to the Pied Piper, and the Pied Piper was real. He was a one-man good year for casinos around the world. But this time he had gone too far, he only had a short time to fix it or his fairytale nation would be gobbled up as a province of France or Belgium to protect the public from his excesses. His family’s five-century-old principality would be history. He couldn’t hold back. If he had to be dangerous and crazy, so be it. Who would take him seriously anyway? So, he jumped in full force, hoping he would succeed against all the odds.

The last notes I organized before putting them back in my briefcase for the evening were the perfect ending point for the night. They came from Petey, an eighty-five-year-old former pit boss in Vegas, who had seen the Pied Piper in his wildest days.

“You gotta promise me one thing,” Petey had told me.

“What’s that?”

“If you find out the real story before I die, you gotta tell me.”

“Absolutely.”

A huge smile lit his wrinkled, ancient face, “When you come to tell me, make sure I give you my will first.”

“Why?”

“Because when I hear what he did, I’ll probably laugh my ass into the big one. It’ll be a helluva way to go. Die with a smile on my face. Man, I haven’t been this excited since that hooker in ’83. You’ve made this old man very happy. I’ve got something to look forward to now. Thank the Pied Piper for me.”

“You’ve got it, Petey,” I said with a snicker.

Perfect. I let the vodka and clickety-clack of the train put me to sleep. I smiled to myself with that one last thought.

When your kid asks, “How did the Cold War really end, daddy?” You can tell him, “This is how. Don’t believe what you read in the history books. Sit back and read the real story.”

I am struck by pangs

of yesterday, remembered

but stuck in the loneliness

of no tomorrow lingering.

Overbearing sadness creeps in

on sandals of wet tears

The quarter moon staggers

drunkenly on my soul,

releasing my torn heart

in bloody cut pieces

        Who will chaperone my darkness?

Forlornly, I trace your missing essence

with fingers reaching for empty sky

loneliness corrodes what we once shared

You cut our ribbons holding us together

I watch the dark night shed

its dizzy coat of loneliness.

I breathe deeply but don’t exhale

I scrape my skin, failing

to rid it of membraned gloom.

I cry inside trapped in gasping moan.

Darkness and loneliness traipse

hand in hand with no trace of you.

         Who will chaperone my darkness?

Reluctant Martin thought he might

Compete in prose it just felt right

His poetry and writes concealed

Vulnerability revealed

His bold move of the century

He sent his poetry entry

The prize for winner number one

Was lots of money to be won

Unbeknownst to Martin was 

The judges arguments because

Entries of one thousand ten

Only one poem would win

Deliberating like a jury

Judges reading in a hurry

Martin doubts himself a winner

Knowing he was a beginner

Martin lost the competition

He thought his writing was his mission

He never knew the judges' sum

How close he was to number one

KEEP WRITING!

'... Deep within you, the 'Dark Engine'

Forms of anger; hatred.

'...It is a source of great power.'

Resentment.

'... Let go of the 'Beast in the Cellar.'

Not yet.

'... C'mon, Commodore Decker's 'Doomsday Machine.'

Maybe tomorrow.

'... You always say that every today'

Hopefully I'll say it again when tomorrow becomes today.

'... That's okay, I'll always be here.'

Yeah, I know, and I kinda like that.

Knowledge opens the shards

of frozen ice to reveal reason why

mind is helplessly chained to wall,

unleashes boundaries from pen -

a new awakening of amber glow

as sun filters mind breaking shackles,

opening up knowledge to consume

the ancient stones, infancy of truths.

Abandoned harmony of life threads dance

kneeling in balance of life bursting forth

like ripe, dripping peaches of wisdom,

resonating on night wind – savage possession

kindled with pain and pleasure entwined,

budding wisdom and time-worn realities,

maze of verity cursed by thirst of all-knowing

reaching for promise in distant starlit skies,

yearning to share bounty of far flung vistas.

Knowledge drives wisdom on wings of fancy,

breathing beneath tangled debris of mind

following different roads to same destination,

fulfilling fiery wishes of uncloaked secrets.

Mystery is disguised by masks of seeking

the bruises of battle scars leading the way,

cherished thoughts of enlightenment unlock

puzzles of mind, opening clear view to lost images.

Windows of light glimmer throughout the denseness,

healing begins and filters through opening mind,

a cocoon awakening to that which you seek

in moonlit sonatas sharing what is meant to be.

Knowledge is not about learning alone but sharing

wisdom imparted in simplicity before submitting

to the mindless grave, watching knowledge march on.

Yes, we blinked and it happened again, dear Prosers. It’s Friday. And what a day it is, as it’s the time of the week that we get another Proser’s information. Confession is not betrayal. What you say or do doesn't matter: only feelings matter. Yep, I quoted 1984. 

Anyway, this week we get to meet one helluva guy that if you don’t know on Prose, then you really should. It’s @MarkOlmsted

P: What is your given name and your Proser username?

M: They are one and the same - Mark Olmsted. But I do have a slightly interesting story about my name. I am half-French, and my mother named me after my grandfather, Marcel. But my dad was afraid I would be teased for sounding “foreign” (it was 1958), so he made sure it was spelled “Mark” was on my birth certificate. When I grew older, I started to use “Marc” for all my writing, even using MarcOlmsted.com as a website. 

When Facebook came on the scene, I friended another Marc Olmsted, who turned out to be a fairly prominent San Francisco poet. He eventually told me he was starting to get asked at readings how prison and HIV had affected his work (audience members had googled him and stumbled on my history.) So I offered to switch back to my legal spelling permanently, and even gave him my website. I didn’t really mind – it ends up being easier to use the same spelling as the one on your license anyway.

P: Where do you live?

M: Hollywood, California.

P: What is your occupation?

M: I transcribe movies and TV shows, as well as edit film subtitles. (They come to me in English, but they often are not perfectly translated or have grammatical or spelling errors, so I fix them.)

P: What is your relationship with writing and how has it evolved?

M: I majored in screenwriting at NYU Film School, and that was my focus for 15 years. I came very, very close to getting a movie made, but two directors died on me in a row and I took what turned out to be a very long break. I then switched to magazine writing, and edited a national publication for gay men. Then I stopped working because of HIV, and got into drugs, but did keep writing poetry. In 2004 I spent 9 months in prison, and wrote letters home rather prolifically. They formed the basis of my memoir, Ink from the Pen. After my release, I blogged extensively, both personally and as a journalist. I got a M.A. in Creative Writing in 2013, and my Master’s Thesis was a screenplay, The Exiled Heart. Through it all, I have always written short stories, the best of which are in Lost and Found in the Prose Bookstore.

P: What value does reading add to both your personal and professional life?

M: They say a good writer is a good reader, and I think this is true. But it’s also a challenge for me to read as much as I’d like because I often feel I should use that time to be writing. (I’m 58, and way behind schedule!) That’s why I do most of my non-internet reading on the stationery bike at the gym. It’s amazing how many books you can read in a year just by devoting 90 minutes a week to it.

P: Can you describe your current literary ventures and what can we look forward to in future posts?

M: Completing Ink from the Pen was huge for me, and I’m trying to find a literary agent to shop it to traditional publishers. I will keep adding pieces to my other three books in the Prose bookstore, and will continue work on the prequel to Ink – which documents the long and gradual arc of mendacity and addiction that lead to my incarceration.

P: What do you love about Prose?

M: Well, first the community – it’s amazingly supportive. I have yet to post anything that does not get read and commented on favorably – which I also try to do for others as much as possible, particularly the Poets in Prison.

But it is the bookstore that has put a great anxiety of mine to rest. I have finally found one repository for all of my eclectic work. If I get hit by a bus tomorrow, I know my work will live on forever on one bookshelf on the internet. And if I never write a bestseller in this lifetime, who knows, I may become a sensation in some Star Trekian world of the future, where a vast intergalactic computer scans literature from the previous 3000 years for every reader’s taste.

P: Is there one book that you would recommend everybody should read before they die?

M: The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. It is a perfect book.

P: Do you have an unsung hero who got you into reading and/or writing?

M: My fourth grade teacher, Miss Mitchell, assigned us to write a short story as our semester assignment. I was pretty sure after finishing mine: The Black-Framed Letter (about the French underground – which amusingly, I thought was actually located underground), I knew I was going to be a writer.

P: Describe yourself in three words!

M: Funny. Clever. Compassionate.

P: Is there one quote, from a writer or otherwise, that sums you up?

M: “It wasn't until late in life that I discovered how easy it is to say, 'I don't know.'”

–W. Somerset Maugham

P: What is your favourite music, and do you write or read to it?

M: Movie scores – Alexander Desplat in particular I really love to write to. And of course sometimes you just have to take a break and dance to Marvin Gaye.

P: You climb out of a time machine into a dystopian future with no books. What do you tell them?

M: I’d ask for a pen and paper and start writing one, of course. (Everybody must say that.) I suspect I’d call it: “The Super Brand-New Testament.”

Of course, I might have to teach them to read and probably re-invent the printing press, so it could take a while.

P: Do you have a favourite place to read and write?

M: My computer is in my bedroom office. As a matter of practicality, it’s the only place I write. But I like it fine because I have a horrific case of A.D.D. and need to check Facebook, Prose, and Twitter every 7 minutes.

P: Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you/your work/social media accounts?

M: Read everything I post on Prose and like it. Retweet everything I post on Twitter (@marquismarq). Follow me on Facebook and slavishly comment on every post, only saying worshipful things. And buy my book. Lots and lots of copies.

Well, you heard the man! Follow him! Read him! Adore him! Seriously, go check him out, you won’t be disappointed. Get those eyes opened up to stuff you may not know about.

And again we implore you: we want more Prosers for this feature, so if you like it, then please suggest people, and even volunteer yourselves. Prose wants you to feature in future Friday Features. So c'mon, get busy and get in touch on paul@theprose.com

There are times in our lives when, the storm has raged, darkness has rolled in, violent gales and pounding waves. The assault has levied its anger and left destruction in its wake. The toll it has taken is unbearable. Unfathomable. Devastating. What remains are splinters of what was once a life. A hard earned, carefully crafted, beautiful, soulful life. The clouds are still heavy above our heads. Ominous. The wind still whips our hair around our face, making it hard to see. The air is heavy, so thick it's hard to breath, suffocating. Dizzying. We can't get warm, the chill is bone deep, numbing, We are hunched over, Shivering, soaked, bruised and weary. Defeated?

And yet somehow, there is a sliver of light. There is a silence, a growing warmth and a calm. There is a small but present feeling that makes itself known and through all of the desperation, despair, and lost promises we start to catch a glimmer of something. It is what will give us the courage, the strength and the motivation to pick up the pieces. To start anew. It is HOPE. Hope is the rainbow that appears after the storm. Hope is the bird that resumes his song. Hope is the ray of sun slipping through the clouds. Hope is the flower left standing, it's sweet fragrance finding your nose. Hope is a soft Blanket wrapped around our shoulders. It is a long deep breath. It is your face tilting towards the sky. It is in the knowing that things will start to get better. The rebirth of dreams, planning for the future, faith. Hope is the friend that comes along and offers encouragement and support. Hope is searching through the rubble and finding a memory. Hope is sharing your fears and sorrow with another and finding a common peace. Hope is turning your own gloom into someone else's comfort and Hope. Hope is community. Hope is constant, even when we think it is gone or irretrievable, it is there, reaching out and offering it's hand, urging us to take hold.