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Rondavid Gold

Rondavid  is a retired ad agency head and award-winning Creative Director/copywriter. He is a published author (‘Because Of Eve‘ and ‘Selling without Selling, 4 ½ Steps to Sucess‘ ), musician, photographer, 3-D aficionado, Viet Nam Vet and the proud father of perfect daughter, Shanti.

A Pro's Insight

As the President and creative director of a Manhattan ad agency, Rondavid brings his years of marketing insight into all of his current projects.

Books • Stories • Articles

A published author with a wide, rich range of life experiences, Rondavid’s writing is fast-moving and involving.


A business and community leader, author, musician, husband and father…Rondavid gratefully embraces and shares his rich and diverse life with the people and causes he cherishes.

About Rondavid Gold

Rondavid Gold is a retired ad agency head and award-winning Creative Director/copywriter.

He is a published author (Because of Eve, a medical/mystery novel and Selling without Selling, 4 ½ Steps to Success), musician, photographer, 3-D aficionado, Viet Nam Vet and the proud father of perfect daughter, ShantiHe is however, first and foremost, the perpetually awe-struck husband of Carol Super Gold.

Rondavid has dedicated his retirement to community service. He currently leads or serves on several local and regional non-profit boards. He enjoys playing clarinet and saxophone with Catskill’s Best Dixieland Band and performs cocktail jazz piano music for various functions.

Available Books

Michael Katz is a medical student moonlighting as a detective for a small agency. When he opens a door on a routine case, his life is forever changed. The trail of a student-loan defaulter leads him to a shocking discovery: the unresponsive body of Anne Richards, with no indication of how she died. An autopsy reveals that she was pregnant, yet still a virgin. Alongside Anne’s sister Gail, Michael joins forces with Detective Lieutenant James Durant to uncover the truth behind her death. Their investigation delves into the dangerous world of black-market mobs, government secrets, and international controversy. Together, they uncover answers that will change the course of history.

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Anne Pyburn Craig
Anne Pyburn CraigReview from The Chronogram
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" Into a world racked by conflict over reproductive rights and gender issues, ruled by greed and the hasty excesses of Big Pharma, Gold introduces an entirely new ingredient: a pill that enables women to clone themselves, producing little girl-babies without the need for spermatozoa. Introducing the concept through the eyes of a medical student who moonlights as a detective and is confronting a suspicious death, the debut novelist and Woodstock resident unfolds it over I the course of 137 rapid-fire chapters full of intense dialogues between over 30 characters. "

Ron's Articles

The Cottage

For me, the story of the cottage begins in a spectacular meadow in Woodstock, New York on a bright, hot July day in 1971. I had met Michael less than an hour before.

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The Stall King

The Stall King Stall King Reminiscences • It looked like a chicken. In 1958, I was a 17-year-old after school advertising apprentice at a fast-growing… little agency in Cleveland. We specialized in shopping center promotion.

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Because of Eve

A Medical/Mystery Thriller
A novel by R.D. Gold ( available soon )

Chapter 1


Michael Katz was startled by the huge, grease-matted rat, which suddenly and silently scuttled from beneath the remnants of a carelessly discarded paper bag and scurried into the shadows. The weary wooden stairs creaked noisily beneath his well-worn Mephistos.  

He shuddered, and cautiously made his way along the dim, refuse-strewn hallway to a soiled, scarred door roughly marked with a barely legible number 4.  Michael took a deep breath, knocked firmly and waited.  In response, there was only the whisper of loose papers being blown about the grimy hallway, more scurrying…and silence.

“Mr. Barcotti?  I have a delivery for Joseph Barcotti,” he said loudly, knocking again.

“He ain’t there,” said a graveled voice emanating from an unkempt head that appeared suddenly from an adjoining doorway.

“Thanks,” said Michael.  “You sure?”

“Yeah. Joe B. moved out a few months ago.”

“Any idea where?”

“Nah.  But, he sure didn’t belong in this fuckin’ trap.”

“Really? Why’s that?” Michael asked. 

“He was smart, y’know.  He talked real good…and he didn’t drink or shoot up and shit.”

“Thanks, man,” said Michael, resignedly turning and heading back down the filthy stairs.  He punched #3 on his cell phone.

“Stern Detective Agency.  May I help you?” 

“Hey, Stacey… Michael.  Barcotti’s on the move again.  I’m goin’ back to his bank to check out the latest.”

“You’ll get him, Michael.  You always do.”

“Thanks, Stace.  I’ll stay in touch.”

“Hey, Michael.  Scott wants a minute.  You got one?”


“Hang on. “

Shortly, Scott Stern’s big voice boomed, “Michael!  Great work on tracking down Little Dickie Sammerson.  He was sickeningly slick.”

“Yeah, it felt great getting that asshole.  Now, I’ve got to pick up the trail to Barcotti.”

“You’ll get him.  You always do.”

“Your confidence warms my cockles.”

“Screw your friggin’ cockles!  Have you thought about what I said?”

“You mean that thing about leaving medical school and becoming a full-time detective and ruining my life?”

“Yeah, that thing.”

“Here’s what I think about that thing. I think Dr. Katz wouldn’t think that was a very good idea.”

“Your father’s not you, Michael. 

“Don’t I know it.”

“You’re the best natural detective I’ve ever seen.   You’ve got a perfect nose, a great sense of logic and a friggin’ photographic memory.”

“A blessing and a curse.”

“I’m serious.  You love doing this crap.  You could make a fortune. You could…”

“Hey, Scott. Don’t make me get all sappy about becoming a doctor… helping people, saving the world and all that stuff.”

“I’m not through trying to convince you, you know.”

“I know. I know. I know.”

“Don’t bet against me on this, kid.”

“Not going to happen, Scott.  I’ll be in touch.  Later.”


selling without selling

4 1/2 steps to success
by Carol Super and Ronald D. Gold

Reveals the approaches that Super used at 3M/Media Networks (now owned by AOL Time Warner) to produce double to triple the average sales of her colleagues–every year.


A sampling of text from Ron's original Flash Fiction piece

by Rondavid Gold

He entered.
“Welcome to Kilwins. What can I get ya, young man?”
“One scoop of cherry in a cup, please.”
“Comin’ up.”
She entered.
“Be right with ya young lady. Here ya go, young man, that’s five twenty-five.”
“Keep the change.”
“Thank you very much, sir. And what can I get for you ma’am?”
“A scoop of cherry in a cup, please.”
“Comin’ right up.”
“Well. It looks like we were meant for each other.”
“Pardon me?”
“When two people both like Kilwin’s cherry, that implies a deep connection.”
“You think so.”
“No question. I’m Larry.”
“Here ya go, young lady. That’ll be…”
“Here. This one’s on me. To celebrate.”
“No, uh…”
“No…Larry. I…”
“I insist…Beth. Here, keep the change.”
“Why thank you. Now you two enjoy your Kilwins together, y’hear.”
“Thank you, Larry.”
“My pleasure, Beth. Let’s sit right here. OK? You have a few minutes?”
“A few. I have to be back at work by two. I like taking my break here.”
“Good choice. Where do you work?”
“Haskell & Demmings. First year.”
“Really? You’re an attorney?”
“’Fraid so. Change your mind about having ice cream together?”
“Actually, you might want to change your mind. I’m an attorney also. Goldstein and Morgan. Second year.”
“Uh oh.”
“Yeah. This may not be do-able.”
“I guess we could still try to make it work somehow.”
“Maybe…with counselling.”
“You live nearby?”
“West Palm.”
“Jupiter. Still possible. Not too far.”
“It’s a long shot, though.”
“For sure. And I’m Jewish.”
“Uh oh.”
“Another major hurdle to our relationship.”
“But, Reconstructionist and Reformed aren’t really that different.”
“I guess not. But, before we get married…”
“Are you proposing, Larry?”
“Not quite yet. First there’s something I need to know.”
“Do you always have to be right?”
“Me, too! We’re going to have some wonderful arguments.”
“Well, I guess that settles it.”
“I guess so. We should probably get together Saturday night to discuss the wedding plans?”
“I suppose you’re right. Here’s my address. 8PM.”
“I really love this ice cream.”
“Me too.”

The Fifteenth Step

A Flash Fiction piece by R.D. Gold

I swore never to return to this place.

And yet, here I was in the city, on the street and in front of the house where it all happened.

As I stood and gazed through the familiar arched hedge at the Victorian-style town house, my senses spiked, the hairs on my arms stood up as from a lightning strike and memories stormed in like a thunderclap.

Even standing on the street, my mind could smell the fresh-baked bread… hear the sounds of hysterical getting-tickled giggles from Amy…and the happy disarray in the sprawling, high-ceilinged living room.

As I walked slowly up the chipped cement front stairs, I was strangely, simultaneously attracted and repelled by the prospect of figuratively and literally opening the weathered door to the past that loomed menacingly before me.

Just before she died, my mother had sent me the house key and the note, “The fifteenth stair. “

I had stormed off those many years ago, leaving behind the remnants of a fraying life. Amy’s death had destroyed us all. Shouted accusations. Guilt-induced depression. “Not your fault,” everyone said. We knew better. There must have been something we could have done. Something we must have missed.

The heavy front door creaked open revealing a dismally dark and dusty interior that reflected my own feelings as I slowly entered. The living room was to the left. The dining room to the right. Furniture covered with sheets. Sun streaks spilling onto the wood floors from the kitchen straight ahead.

And there, directly before me, gracefully spiraling upward, stood the glorious centerpiece of the house and our lives…a magnificently immense, wide, marble and mahogany staircase.

These stairs had been our playground as we bounded upward and raced downward playing our childhood games. Its polished bannisters perfect for sliding on. And what grand entrances we made on those special occasions. Slowly descending in our finery to the admiring applause of those below.

And then Amy died and my world wept without ceasing.

She tripped on the hem of her glorious graduation gown and tumbled down those stairs, her lovely head striking the marble again…and again.

I swore never to return this place. And yet, here I was painfully ascending the stairs that had killed her. Ten…eleven…twelve…thirteen…fourteen…

The fifteenth stair. It seemed no different from all the others at first. On closer inspection however, I found that I could slide it aside like the cover of an ancient sarcophagus.

There was a large walnut box. I lifted the hinged lid. It was all there in profusion. Photographs of the good days, the sweet times together, the holiday celebrations, the joys. There were favorite childhood toys. There were birthday cards. My life with Amy.

And there was the wilted corsage from her graduation gown.

And from my mother, a card. “To My David. May her memory be as a blessing. Not a curse.”

And so it was.

I swore never to return to this place. I’m glad I did.

The Voice

A Flash Fiction piece by R.D. Gold

The voice spoke to me on that beautiful Fall afternoon while I was visiting Anne’s grave.

I go there every week, you know, just to tell her how much I miss her and how empty my life is without her. It’s my sad way of attempting to cope. Somehow, I sense her presence more in the solitude of that quiet place than anywhere else. Of course, I never anticipated a response.

On that particular day, however, as I was pouring out my weekly lament, I heard her voice. In fact, it was not really hearing, but rather a soundless sound deep in my soul. It was definitely Anne’s voice.

“Change is coming,” it said to me.

And from that same place in my being, I was wordlessly able to ask: “What change?”

“The universe.”

“Will this be a cataclysmic change? An explosion?”

“No. Don’t be concerned, my love. It will be completely peaceful…evolutionary. Look.”

And I saw.

In fact, it was not really seeing, but yet I did clearly see a vast sandy plain extending from horizon to horizon. Standing on the plain in a circle were countless women dressed in black. They appeared nun-like but were not nuns. They faced an open area in the center. In the center of the open area was a simple wooden platform. In the center of the platform stood a solitary woman in normal dress.

And I knew.

The women were transmitting the power of their feminine energy to the one on the platform. She was absorbing it. I understood somehow. That energy, through that woman, was going to change the universe.

I then noticed that at the bottom of the steps leading up to the platform, there was a man. It was me.

“Am I a part of the changeover?” I asked.


“What should I do to prepare?”

“Don’t be concerned. It’s all done. It will be revealed. You’ll know.”

And then, written across the sky, appeared the word, “truth.”

And then…nothing more. Just me. Standing by Anne’s grave.

And so you see, doctor. Since then, I’ve been waiting. I’ve been watching. Look around. You can already see it happening. And I’m part of it. I don’t know why or how. Waiting and watching doesn’t mean I’m crazy, does it? Does it? You’re a woman. You understand. I’m not crazy, doctor. Am I?

Am I?


A Flash Fiction piece by R.D. Gold

A Nice Photo

It was a gray, drizzly March day, 70 years ago. My younger sister, Grace, and I, both teenagers, were taking an afternoon walk in town when we were suddenly confronted by a disheveled old woman, with very bad teeth and even worse breath.

“You girls are very fortunate,” she rasped as we attempted to get by. “You’ve been chosen to receive a special gift.”

“Keep walking, Emily,” Grace whispered. “Don’t pay any attention to…”

“Eternal youth,” said the woman.

I stopped. “Well, it certainly didn’t work for you, did it?” I blurted.

“Shush,” said Emily. “You’ll just encourage her.”

“I was chosen to give, my dear. Not to receive,” said the woman holding out a small, beautifully fashioned metal box.

“What…?” I began, caught between being repelled by the tattered, foul-smelling woman and an irresistible attraction to the gleaming object in her gnarled hand.

“Emily!” snapped Grace. “Come on!”

“It is for you both and only for you both,” said the woman pressing it into my hand. “Take it. Use it. You will see.”

And then she turned and walked away and was shortly out of sight.

“You shouldn’t have taken that from her, Emily,” Grace scolded. “Who knows where it…”

“C’mon. You’ve got to be at least a little curious, Gracie,” I said.

“Not in the least,” she said. But I could see that she was. More than a little. We both were.

“We’ll take a peek when we get home.” I said.

We hardly said a word on the way home as anticipation quickened our step.

We went immediately into the back garden and put the shiny little box on the bench.

“I’m scared,” Grace said. “What if it’s something really gross.”

“Only one way to find out,” I said and slowly lifted the lid.

“What is it?” said Grace.

“I’m not sure,” I said as I removed a small object.

We stared in wonder.

“It looks like a little camera!” said Grace.

“You’re right, it does,” I said.

“Well let’s see if it works! Let’s take a picture!” said Grace taking the camera with a quivering hand.

“I think there’s a timer setting on it. See, here. A tiny hour glass symbol.”

“Put the camera on the table and set the timer!”

I pressed the shutter button and a red light began to flash.

“Hurry! Over here!”

We ran and stood together in front of the camera as the red light blinked faster and faster and finally stopped.

There was a blinding flash of light. Much too bright to come from such a small object. But it did.

We screamed and clutched each other.

And that was it.

We stared at each other.

“Wow,” I said. “That was scary.”

“For sure,” said Grace.

We stared at each other.

“Now what do we do?” Grace asked.

“Well,” I said, “I guess we roll up the film, if there is any… and take it to Mr. Jayson at the drugstore and have him develop it and see what’s what.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Grace.

And that’s what we did.

Mr. Jayson was a little puzzled by the small roll of film. “Guess it’s one of those new German cameras,” he said. “I’ll do my best with it. Come back in two days.”

For Grace and me it was the longest 2 days of our lives. We expected to see something special and extraordinary.

“Very strange,” Mr. Jayson told us when we went to pick up our developed film. “I’ve never seen any film like it. It was a bright gold color. But I developed it in the usual way and there was one picture on it. It’s very nice.”

“But not special? Not extraordinary?” I asked.

“Nope. Just…nice,” He said.

He showed the picture to us. He was right. It was a very nice picture of Grace and me in the back yard.

“Well, that’s was a real let-down,” Grace groused as we headed home.

“Yeah,” I said. “No magic. But it’s a nice picture. let’s frame it and put it on the piano anyway. To remember our little adventure together.”

And we did.

That was 70 years ago. Grace and I grew to young womanhood and then…we stopped aging.
In fact, today, both of us remain vibrant, healthy young women.

But, that photo on the piano now shows two sisters in their 80’s, one holding a cane, standing together in their back yard.

It’s a nice photo.

Dealing With The Devil

A Flash Fiction piece by R.D. Gold

It wasn’t a journey I relished.  It promised to be unbearably long, terribly tedious and probably perilous. But necessary nevertheless.  My heart raced like a ticking timebomb as Alyssa packed our bags, including my own special one, for our journey to Columbia.  Of course, I understood that her Papa was in mortal danger and he needed his beloved only daughter to be with him.   But Medellin was a hotbed of chaos and corruption. Single and mass murders, kidnappings and mysterious “disappearances” were everyday occurrences. Drug lords operated by their own set of perverse practices, totally unchecked by terrified, ineffective law enforcement.
It was into this hellish hotbed that we were headed.  But it was even worse.  Alyssa’s Papa had incurred the wrath of Alejandro Pinzon, vicious head of Vipora, one of Columbia’s most powerful drug cartels. Papa had killed one of Pinzon’s cousins while attempting to foil a robbery at his bank.
Alyssa works for the U.S. State Department, DEA division.  She is in possession of the highest- priority top-secret information regarding drug-enforcement procedures and activities.  This information is more precious than diamonds to Alejandro Pinzon.  Of course, the DEA knew of Alyssa’s dad and, because he was the head of one of Columbia’s largest banks, they had always hoped that a situation would arise where he could serve as a conduit to a Medellin drug lord. Now, that opportunity had tragically materialized.  Papa was now being held hostage and his safe release depended on the strength and veracity of the information that his daughter could provide to Pinzon.
My special bag was the key to the success of the special op to free Papa and take down Vipora. Hidden within its seams was a liquid spray, whose principal ingredient was, ironically, a super-potent form of the deadly venom of the Gaboon Viper. (Vipora is viper in English.)  Alyssa would have access to a hidden spray switch on the bag which no search would reveal.
Airline security personnel were made aware of the vital nature of our mission, so our flights to Medellin were uneventful and the search of our luggage was cursory.
We were met at the airport by an armored custom-made Bentley manned by four dour dudes.   Alyssa was blindfolded and after what seemed like forever, we arrived at a huge, heavily fortified manor house, hidden deep in the dense Columbian jungle.
“El Jeffe is expecting you,” announced one of the dour dudes.
After being carefully searched, including my bag, we were escorted into a monumental, bodyguard bedecked office, featuring a monumental, gleaming mahogany desk behind which was ensconced a small, elegantly dressed mustachioed man who could have been sent by central casting to play a Columbian drug lord.  Papa sat far across the room, gagged and tied to a chair.
“Welcome, Alyssa.  I hope I can call you Alyssa.  Call me Alex.  May I offer you a drink of any kind.  No?  Well, then, I hope we can conduct our business quickly, efficiently and…to our mutual satisfaction.”
“The information you want is hidden in the bag.”
“What bag.  You didn’t…”
“My puppy’s carry back pack.”
“You’re joking, of course.”
“It was the safest way to bring it in.  No one thought to search it thoroughly.  Your own men searched it and didn’t find anything whatsoever.”
“Ingenious I must say.  Let’s see it.”
With my tail wagging wildly and my ears furiously flopping, Alyssa gently took me out of my special bag and pressed the hidden button releasing the venom spray.  As the drug lord and his minions gasped for breath and dropped to the floor, Alyssa quickly injected Papa with an antidote.  (She and I were already protected.)
Then there was the welcome sound of our rescue helicopters and mass confusion amongst the now-leaderless gang.
It’s great to be back home.  Papa’s with us.  He loves me.  Alyssa loves me.  I got a medal for bravery and more than ever, I enjoy riding around in my special bag.

Hallway To Destiny

A Flash Fiction piece by R.D. Gold

For so many years I have simultaneously anticipated and dreaded the journey down this long, dimly lit hallway to the stark white door at its end. That door and what waits behind it is now the focus of my unwavering determination to complete this…what should I call it?…mission. Step by step. Step by step.

Initially, the whole idea was deeply repugnant to me. It was beyond possibility that anyone could…or would… do such a thing. Still, close friends, relatives and others I’d only heard about had decided to take this perilous walk. Step by step.

The hallway is silent. Eerily silent. The only sounds coming from within my own body; the heavy pounding of my fearful heart, the gurgling of the acid in my roiling stomach.
Step by step.

Now, at last, I ‘m here. The ornate doorknob turning in my sweat-slick hand. And now slowly, slowly…the voice…

“Ah, Mr. Roberson, come in. Welcome to Comedy Central. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Taking The Plunge

A Flash Fiction piece by R.D. Gold

The year: 2028. The place: a Lucid Automobile Showroom.

“Welcome to Lucid. How may I help you, Mr….?”

“Jackson. Evan Jackson. I’m interested in the ’29 EV1000.”

“Great, Evan, I’ll be happy to show you this extraordinary vehicle and arrange a test drive for you. Please. Come with me.”

“Will do.”

“Here you go, Evan. Isn’t she a beauty?”

“I’ll say!”

“And her beauty isn’t just skin deep. She’s totally AI self-aware. Just tell her where you want to go and she’ll take you there. Quickly, safely, comfortably. The EV1000 is simply the finest automobile ever made.”

“Could I take her for a drive?”

“Absolutely. Slide right in.”

“Uh…there are no door handles. How do I…”

“Just walk next to her…that’s right…and voila!”


“That’s right. She senses you and opens your door. Now slip into those gorgeous leather seats.”


“Enjoy your drive, Evan.”

“Sure. But…”


“There’s no starter button…or…how do I…?

“The EV1000 is completely voice activated, Evan.”


“Absolutely. You just say, ‘Thank God’ to make her go and ‘Hallelujah’ to make her stop.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“OK. Here goes. Thank God!”

As promised, the EV1000 sped off like a rocket. In fact, it went so fast that Evan Jackson lost control. The car left the road and headed straight for Green Lake Canyon, a 1000-foot cliff overlooking a huge green-hued lake.

As he approached the cliff’s edge, Evan, in his panic, struggled to remember the code word to stop the car. Then, at the last possible second, he shouted, “Hallelujah.” The Ev1000’s Enhanced Emergency Braking System instantly engaged and the car skidded closer and closer to the edge of the towering precipice, finally stopping just inches from doom.

“Thank God,” said Evan Jackson.