Pressure

Turnstiles led us into caged alignments as we filed into the dome. Those on crutches moved to the head of lines while the wheelchair-bound were ushered in by smiling, plain-clothed workers. There was no security and if any hostility had broached the sidewalk curb of the dome it was graciously and willingly checked at the door. Singers highlighted by Amy Grant sang songs laden with the same message; that there is hope in the world. It was a soft sell. It was a simple platform that assumed none of the grandeur that an 1850’s tent revival may have deserved. After Graham had spoken for an hour, throngs of people seeking salvation were led onto the field. They walked in three lines, twenty abreast, from sections of the dome. Then I noticed the same thing was happening on our side. Three lines, in perfect formation, were born from the sections in which I sat. I stood awestruck as those in wheelchairs wheeled themselves slowly, arduously negotiating the Astroturf of the Metrodome. Graham’s arms reached out to figuratively touch each and every member who sought His salvation by accepting the word. He reached out to every student or blue-collar worker who found that their life was going nowhere fast and had surrendered it to Jesus like I had facilely done many months before.

I did not go down on that field and I was not expected to go. Some Christians, whether they are born once or twice, are more sincere than others. Some genuinely do not have an ulterior motive in befriending you. After a suitable and convincing sojourn of truth the pilgrims filed peacefully back to their sections in the same manner as they had come. Nothing had changed and the magic that I had really been hoping to see never happened. There was some more singing; real, uplifting gospel, revival type singing with the crowd clapping as their standing ovations morphed into dancing. I was smiling and dancing with them all.

____

As the pressure of the dome blew us out the doors opposite the turnstiles through which we’d passed I looked back to see if I had missed any magic. Then I saw those on crutches and in wheelchairs being blow out; the latter spinning to a stop on the sidewalk in front of the Dome. They were the same; nothing magically faded like when Forest Gump ran and he gradually lost his braces through Hollywood special effects. The smiles were brighter though and those pilgrims were filled with hope, positivity and a constructive attitude about their disability. That was magic to me.

　

Fine Line Writing

MB Moshe's Writing Services:

I humbly offer my services as a writer of historically-based fiction, general fiction, and creative nonfiction.  Based on my resume (See side column), I feel qualified to bring a positive touch to your writing.  Fees are negotiable.  However .12 per word is a ball park guide.  I offer:

• proofreading

• copy editing

• ghostwriting

• guest blog writing

I use the Chicago Manual style for editing.  I sincerely hope I can share my passion and commitment to the written word with you.

Reviews

(Amazon Customer Review)

A CAPTIVATING TALE

 May 2, 2013

 

"Moritz, the central character of the book has survived Nazi Germany and a daring escape to freedom through his arrogance, cunning, deceitfulness and determination. He is not a loveable character but one has to admire his resourcefulness pitted against a hostile environment. M.B. Moshe weaves the story of Moritz, his wife and daughter through the events of war torn Europe and postwar America. His colorful, detailed descriptions of the characters make them come alive in this intriguing, captivating tale."    ---Frances W

 

 

 

 

(Barnes & Noble Customer Review)

 

Anonymous

Posted February 12, 2013

                                                               

"It was a touching story. A light, compelling and informative read."

 

 

 

 

"....One often wishes that, instead of flitting over this rich land like a butterfly, we could rest a while and absorb more of the story.

As for spoiled Yeshiva, she gets to dance to Abba at her bat mitzvah, finds herself a "good" man, and then decides to leave him and live instead with a woman. And life goes on. In fact, that is what comes through most clear. Evil, unfortunate, and unexpected things occur, yet life goes on. So enjoy the party. The story is sprinkled heavily with Hebrew, German, and Yiddish, and the glossary at the back is useful for translation."   --- The US Review of Books


(Amazon Customer Review)
An Exciting and Beautifully Written Book May 27, 2013


"The Orthodoxy of Arrogance" is the riveting tale of a Jewish couple who flee Dachau in Nazi Germany in 1944, and follow a difficult path to safety in America. Yet it begins with the story of their daughter, who, a generation later, is trying to find her identity in the aftermath of these dramatic events which overshadow her life. The character of her father is first revealed through her eyes. He is a man who, to use the words in the dedication, is "too arrogant to learn from history, but self-confident enough to rise above it."

Though I have read many stories of the Second World War, they usually focused on the heroic actions of the Allies, leaving the reality faced by those inside Nazi Germany in shadow. This book lifts the curtain on Jewish life inside the Third Reich.

Who could have imagined, for example, that during one of the famous Nazi rallies at Propyläen, one of Der Führer's buildings, a group of Jews nearby were focused on levitating it? Witnesses claimed to have seen the structure begin to vibrate, then rise a meter, revealing the fires of hell lashing out beneath! Such unexpected bravado fills the pages of this wonderful book, while developing the theme of the power of arrogance. It even reveals a new use for marijuana.

Against the background of the exciting and dangerous events which take place, the characters are presented with unusual delicacy and a richness of imagery that is rare to find. The powerful personality of the main character, Moritz, and its effects on his daughter make up the central theme--though one is tempted at first to judge the arrogant father harshly, it soon becomes clear that had he not been possessed of such an indomitable nature, it is unlikely that he would have been able to rescue himself and his wife in the first place. So, as well as a thrilling historical drama, the book is also a remarkable psychological study spanning two generations. The handling of the daughter's character is one of the most sensitive I have ever found.

The Orthodoxy of Arrogance is so well written, and with such lush detail, that it drew me deeply into its often startling reality. If you love well told and unusual human stories, this one is a must read!"


     ---  Ila France Porcher, author of "My Sunset Rendezvous : Crisis in Tahiti"


A WELL-WRITTEN AND ENGROSSING STORY, November 13, 2013

By 

Ellen L.

This review is from: The Orthodoxy of Arrogance (Paperback)

As editor of a Jewish newspaper, now sadly out of business, and currently a freelance editor at EditingByEllen@gmail.com, I have read many books about the Holocaust (and spoken with a number of Holocaust survivors). Most of these books, whether true or fiction, tell a story of survival during this most horrendous of times. A few tell the story of surviving the survival, no easy accomplishment when so much has been lost. M.B. Moshe's "The Orthodoxy of Arrogance" is a rarity in presenting both stories.

Although not always easy to grasp or like, the main characters -- Moritz, his wife, Hannah, and his daughter, Yeshiva -- are always fascinating. Although it is Moritz and Hannah who personally experienced the Nazi horror, the author, himself the son of a Holocaust refugee, as he notes in the introduction, realizes that Yeshiva too is a survivor and her life will always be impacted by the experiences of her parents and their ability to survive when so many others perished. None of them has an easy life, but each has learned to cope with what life has to offer.

Despite its overarching topic, "The Orthodoxy of Arrogance" is hopeful rather than depressing. And it is unforgettable

     

 

from The Mystery That is a Child

".....exposure, attitudes augmented by the ever obtrusive Phineas J. Parsons,  Hank stared confidently ahead as the sun glinted off his eyes.  “Calm down Jeth. We’ll do fine.  These people love us still, I think.  Oh, what do we care, we’ll just get up there and do our best.”

            “Geez, I don’t know Hank.  It feels like we done something wrong, like this time we won’t win.”

            “Dam it Jeth, you’re not helping with that attitude.  Just put it out of your mind and help me with Dolly.  You know the judging starts in 20 minutes and we still have to get about four blocks through all these people.”

Throngs of the sweated, fatted, insatiably -challenged people of Merriment danced in the dusty streets that had comprised the hallowed fairground for the past thirteen years.  Ill-mannered children, miscreants of the day and a few pleasantly refined youngsters darted in contestants’ paths.  And the fat, hairy women  grew subtly restless with their exploitation.  The ill-fitted clothing was issued them with the primary purpose of accentuating their unshapely forms about which they were ambivalently self-conscious.  They fit like a glove, exposing the plethora of various body hair as an oddity on which one so inclined could capitalize.  Soiled or foul-smelling children lined the shady streets, some skipping through the splashes of water as the town’s fire hydrants were let loose on the hottest days of the summer.  Tilt-a-whirl and carrousels churned their passengers until the fair’s gastronomic delights were returned to the streets.  The giant Ferris-wheel spun magically into a much more radiant sky than was normally bestowed upon this town, its rusting hinges creaking as unsuspecting riders clamored to get out alive.  In the thirteen years of operation, Phineas Parsons had never budgeted more than 100 dollars a year for fair repair.  

            “Well, Hello Mrs. Maddox, Miss Wangford.  Enjoying the fair?”

            “Yes, so far Hank.  When is the judging for your entry?”

            “In a few minutes, if we can make it in time.  You two gonna watch us?”

            “Of course.  And Hank, I want to thank you for introducing me to Liza.  In the past week we have learned so much about each other.  She has really filled the hole in my life.”  Dolly’s green eyes twinkled with a charge nary an eye of Merriment had seen since the sixties.

            “Are you nervous Jeth?”

            “Oh, please Mrs. Maddox, don’t remind me.  I just got to fake it through the first round of judging and I think I might be ok”

            “Easy big fella, don’t take it so seriously,” Hank said as he tried to make things lighter for his friend.

            “It looks like Dolly really doesn’t want to go much.  Kicking and screaming, I’d say you boys are messing with a freakish animal there.  Why, I’m surprised they let that thing into the fair at all, considering the way in which it was born and all.”  Liza displayed a modest amount of disapproval of the boys’ antics as she accentuated the deepest timber in her voice,  evoking the most masculine appearance possible.

            “Liza, is there something I don’t know about you?  I thought you were as open-minded as I was?”

            “Look, I don’t know or care just what went on in that barn, but I do believe that it is wrong to tamper too much with the natural order of things.  I just have a  strange feeling about this one.  Trust me.” 

 

And, out of the corner of Hank’s eyes was revealed the first judgment of the day.  They made it.  They were on time, and Dolly quickened her pace.  They sat with deep concern on their faces as they judged the various cows, sheep, pigs, and occasional goat.  Jethro snickered under his breath as he dreamed about what the judges would say about their accomplishments in the field of animal husbandry, their folly in the face of convention, not to mention their budding creativity of the gay lifestyle.  Judging was a tense,  agonizingly laborious process.  Jethro and Hank held their breath, somewhat because the dung in the barn now had wandered into the nostrils of each contestant worth a salt, but mostly because they hoped they would be judged fairly.  Dolly and Liza whispered in the corner of the barn....."

     

I stood to be delivered

  

a more personal blog

to see my life and pictures and off the record go to: 

http://apmosely.blogspot.com/

Biog

I have been a published author since 2005. I first published a nonfiction book called, rhetorically, Would God Move a Ping-Pong Table? It is sub-titled "a cumulative analysis of faith and religion. No, I honestly do not think God would move a Ping-Pong table. But it was moved in 1988 in a dormitory at the University of Minnesota-Duluth, and my Christian dorm mate still insists I attribute this act to my prayers to God.

I graduated from the University of Minnesota- Duluth with an English degree and a passion to write. I worked full time jobs and wrote on the weekends. I even kept a journal for a few years. In 1998, from a series of short stories based on experiences working at a health club, an obscure Canadian publication published "The Den of Antiquities" under the pen name M.B. Moshe.

I wrote. . .and I wrote. I filled 3.5 floppies with text; fiction and vast catalogues of poetry. I look back now and see how I got tighter (in writing). I see how my writing pecked for, and finally found that voice that is imperative. I am always improving (you judge), finding the voice that is me, but still observant of my audience and their accessibilities.

In 2011 I began writing about an incident I observed in a small local barber shop. An Orthodox Jewish man entered with his young son. He instructed the barber to take a little off the sides for his boy. From that happening, ideas surmounted, culminating into my first historical fiction novel, The Orthodoxy of Arrogance. I looked at some indie publishers and decided on one. The novel came on the market in January of 2013.


In April of 2012 I became a full-time writer.  I write on my prose during the week with the diligence and tenacity I emulated as a medical records clerk.  Weekends are for poetry.  The brain is shortened and the space will follow.  Two poems, at least, per weekend.  On this schedule I have been able to get my first novel (available for your perusal at the link on this blog.)
My writing is fictional.  I enjoy taking benign or malignant events from history, surrounding them with my characters, and telling a story.  I surmise how history could affect an extraordinary character; one who is not like the people we know who've embraced history and either thrived or failed.  My characters usually have baggage they bring through time monitored fantasies that either weigh them down or enable them to tell the story.

Poetry is becoming more instrumental to me every day.  It encapsulates what you want to say in a way prose can't.  Its brevity holds it from running.   A poem captures a thought or a moment in ways prosaic books will never know.  A poem to me is an opportunity for the art of language. 

I live in a Minneapolis suburb with my artist wife.  Alone or together we enjoy the bike trails.  But even then, as I bike sometimes, story lines or poem rhymes will knock upon my ears.  In promoting my book I went on twitter.  I am amazed on tweets I see, the elbows I rub and the eyes that see me.  Somewhere on the bottom of the globe an Aussie bloke is seeing my tweet.  This amazes me, at 48; the last generation that knew what it was like to actually have to occasionally talk to someone face-to- face.

 

 

Some of my work: