I'm not afraid of heights, I swear, especially when there is zero chance of falling. I'm not afraid of the dark either. In fact I've always felt more at home in the glow of the moon than in the warmth of the sun. Despite that I stare down and my chest clenches. No, there's no way. It's not like it is on land where I've spent my whole life acclimating to the fears. This is different, this is something new, a deeper more primal emotion. Even though I have plenty of air, I feel it isn't enough. My light that I thought was powerful only illuminates a small circle. Below me the chasm seems like a forgotten entrance to Hell, a void with only unending terror to accompany me. No, there's no way I'm swimming into that, I'm not even willing to go over it. Even though I paid extra for this dive and my friends will mock my cowardice I start my ascent. This is a place mankind isn't meant to be and I understand that now. This is their home, whatever dwells in that darkness and I will leave them to it.

“It is important to review the details of the contract before you sign.” I should have paid attention to those prophetic words. I should have never agreed to listen to the pitch in the first place.

“The party of the first part, that is you, Mr. Smith, also known as the payee, agrees to the following. By pressing (or activating) the red button, you are solely responsible for the death of one person on Planet Earth. You will never know who this person is, where they are, or exactly when or how they died. They may be an infant, a child, a woman, a man, or geriatric. They may die even if you do not press the red button. But, they will die if you do. The party of the second party, the person to die, also known as the damned, has not agreed to anything and is not even knowledgeable of their part in this contract. They will never know the connection of your action and their death. They will never be informed of your participation. No one will ever inform them or their family of these details. Essentially, they will know or learn nothing.”

I was just about to leave, when he continued.

“Upon pressing the small red button, you, the payee, will receive one million dollars in one hundred dollar bills immediately. Upon payment, with no receipt, our business will conclude and you agree never to speak of your participation in this arrangement to anyone, at any time. Do you understand the exact details of the contract? If so, Mr. Smith, please affix your signature to receive your money. The sooner you sign, the sooner you will become wealthy.”

That was it. All so tidy. I press a button, someone dies, and I am rich. It was all so easy, so sterile, and so antiseptic. No one would ever know. Could I live with murder? Worse yet, could I live with being a paid murderer? One million dollars to blindly kill someone with friends, a job, a family. I needed the money, but did I need it that badly? I have bills. I have a family. I want to be important. I want it all. But, is it worth the price?

I took a few deep breaths. Press the damn button! Press it! What was I waiting for?

It was one of those weird out-of-body experiences where you get to see yourself. The paramedic finally gave up with CPR. I heard him tell the other paramedic to note the time of death. He even confirmed my stroke and seizure for his report.

I saw my own death and no one saw me see me die.

I take that back. Someone saw me.

I saw the contract man walk up to me (or what was left of me) to inform me of my official passing. He informed me that he also represented a group of people who he offered the same red button contract. I believe, apparently, in my hesitation, another payee acted to receive his one million dollars and kill before I could act to receive my million dollars and kill.

I asked him who the other payee was. His only reply, “As per the contract, we never inform the damned the connection to such action and their untimely death. However, we will inform you of your required presence in accordance with your agreed recent moniker.”

I never saw the two demons approach to take me away until it was too late.

I use the word “poopy” on the rare occasion simply because I can. Not for linguistic reasons mind you, but because I respect it so. The word itself is so dog-gone sneaky. You know, like, “Oh, poopy!”

What other word could sound like shit without sounding like shit? Could look like shit and even smell like shit, yet come out the other end so clean that even a toddler can use it without getting in trouble?

The only other word that even comes close is intercourse, but what moron wants to blurt out, “holy intercourse” after licking a light socket? No one, I say.

Is a very clever trick I tell you, so let’s give credit where it’s due-due.

Of all the ways

words can be expressed

it’s impossible to know

if what one imparts

into the world

will be impactful enough

to leave a mark

at any depth

under any person’s skin

nor

is it reasonable to assume

someone

will catch on

to your words

during your lifetime

considering the best ones

are beloved

long after they’re dead.

Therefore,

a poet’s obligation

is simple:

You must

speak for yourself

satisfying every compulsion to communicate

before all else

because in your world

your words matter the most.

You must

jot down anything

that excites your heart enough

to leap from your chest

because if passion isn’t pumping out of you

then you’re already

more than halfway dead.

You must

archive every sentiment

flooding your mind

without restraint

or influence

because when your voice departs this realm

a unique frequency will be left behind

connecting us with you

in the afterlife.

and

most importantly

You must

never hold back the truth

even if it kills you

because in an age where honesty is hard to come by

your words could empower

a bullied child

to muster the courage to say “NO,”

or a mother with a swollen jaw

to regain the proper footing to walk away,

or a divided nation

to disassemble their broken machine

only to rebuild it again so it runs new.

and

you must

do this all

without an audience in mind,

without a contingency plan,

without love or praise

cheering for you at the finish line,

and without tomorrow

because there may never be a

tomorrow.

Now

is when a poet should write.

You should write selfishly,

be unrelenting with your words,

and tell it raw—

Speak Fucking Raw!

Who cares who you please

or if it's politically correct?

Who determines what’s right anyway?

As a poet

you must be willing to rebel,

and do it often

because who else will?

You should

write a beginning

sometimes skip the middle

and always leave out the end

because dreams

are only dreamed

when free thought

is given room to exist

not

when they’re charted out for you

to the very end,

and

A Good Poet

is a cartographer of the heart

who doesn’t point you to a definitive X

on a hand-drawn map,

but instead

helps you navigate

to the buried treasures deep within.

The poets

who write for themselves,

who think for themselves,

who are their authentic selves,

will write for everyone.

So,

at all costs,

write for no one.

Flora’s coworkers always knew when she was coming down the hallway by the distinctive tapping sound of her heels slapping the polished tiles. She had a dozen pairs to coordinate with her collection of collared blouses and knee-length skirts. She was always, undoubtedly the best-dressed person in the room, whether she was at a meeting, post-work happy hour, or an industry conference. She didn’t have to worry about owning clothes for any social events, either, allowing her to pour her all into projecting the right image at work. As a consultant, she knew that having the right image was half the battle.

Flora’s lucrative career allowed her to afford an apartment in Manhattan just a subway ride away from her office. For just 60% of her post-tax income, she got to rent an entire studio to call home — no roommates to chase down for their portion of the bills, no more 2-hour commutes, and no domestic worries apart from the occasional rat, building break-in, and maintenance emergency. She had finally made it.

Flora had been putting in long hours at her job for five long years now. It had been made clear to her that showing loyalty to her employer would be a worthy investment that would catapult her toward limitless success — or at least to some promotions and raises. Instead, every compliment and thumbs-up from her superiors seemed to come with a new project assignment. Now, praise just gave her anxiety about the new responsibilities that were about to be piled onto her plate. She couldn’t complain, though. She had a solid, six-figure salary and a place to live in the city. The new American dream, right?

She heard whispers around the office about some new hires. The executives had finally decided to answer the staff’s desperate requests for more resources, even though it was a few years too late. Flora’s supervisor called her into his office one day to deliver the news.

“Flo, you’ve been such a rockstar this quarter!”

Flora didn’t let her smile break, regardless of her burning hatred for that nickname or the patronizing, corporate label. ‘I guess we’re kind of like rockstars if you count the alcohol consumption,’ she thought.

“Well, I just wanted to give you the good news myself,” he continued. “You’ve really been going above and beyond here, and as you know, the whole team has come to rely on you quite a bit.”

Flora felt her stomach jump with anticipation. This had to be about the promotion that her boss had been hinting about for the past year. She had done all that was asked from her for five years, each year renewing her self-doubt about ever deserving a promotion. She just needed to try harder, raise her hand more, and spend more time showing her worth. Her boss finally noticed her hard work.

“As you’ve probably heard around the rumor mill by now, we’re bringing on a couple of new consultants to help support your team. You’ll be responsible for their training and supervision. They’re still quite green, but you’re always so good at navigating challenges here.”

Flora felt her jaw tighten. ‘Be grateful they trust you with more responsibility,’ she reminded herself.

“Sir, that sounds wonderful! I look forward to meeting our new team members,” she replied with a smile.

They were interrupted by an impatient knock on the door by the executive assistant. Her wide-eyed expression told them that this was urgent.

“Flo, I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere. Always putting out fires over here!” His chuckle echoed down the hall as he walked away.

The executive assistant rolled her eyes as the supervisor marched ahead. Flora understood. She knew that “putting out fires” was manager-speak for “delegating everything to my direct reports while I stand around looking panicked.” She was usually resolving these urgent client issues so her boss could fulfill his duty of sitting in his office and looking busy.

Flora’s supervisor had some sort of official-looking document up on his computer screen. She really couldn’t help but notice. The man didn’t even try to angle the monitor away from anyone who entered his office. She slowly leaned toward the monitor to get a peek. It looked like he was reviewing a signed offer letter that had come back from one of the new hires. She really didn’t intend to do anything but get a quick glance, but there were some big, bolded numbers that caught her eye. She couldn’t believe her eyes at first, but there it was in bold text: this fresh graduate would be paid 50% more than Flora.

She finally snapped. She had kept it together for so long here — five long years, in fact. Five years of all-nighters, lost weekends, and withered relationships, the endless piling on of extra responsibilities as punishment for her hard work. The executives knew they had her backed into a corner. She wouldn’t dare leave. They knew how much they paid her — they knew she could already barely afford her big-city rent.

Flora walked back to her cubicle. A couple of the consultants popped their heads out when they heard her heels come down the hallway. She marched past them without a word and grabbed her purse. Good thing work was her life, or she may have had some personal items covering the gray walls of her cubicle. It was a pretty smooth exit. She walked over to the elevators and left the bleak corporate scene for the last time.

Flora wasn’t even planning on telling her parents. Her mother just happened to call one day right after Flora had sold her couch to a bright-eyed college freshman. That was the last thing left in the apartment besides her old paintings. She had to leave her Blue Period behind.

“How are you doing, Flo? How has work been going?”

Flora cringed. Her mother had a remarkable ability to hit every nerve in just a few seconds. Work and money were the only languages she really understood. At least Flora didn’t have to plaster an unwavering smile onto her face for a phone call.

“It was going great. I’m done with that, though.”

“Oh, you got a new job? How much does it pay?”

Flora’s eyes just about rolled back into her head. Of course this was her mother’s first question. What a perfect reminder of why she left Long Island.

“You could say that. I won’t have to worry about money again.”

“That’s wonderful, honey! Your father will be so proud. We knew you would get your head on straight someday.”

Flora sighed. “Yes, thanks, I think. Anyway, I have a very important business meeting now. Got to run.”

She hung up, picked up her bag, and walked out the door. Some say that she moved out to a hippie commune in Utah to get as far away as possible from her corporate hell. Some say she ran away with a mysterious gentleman. Others say she had a mental breakdown and drank herself to death in Jersey. There are bits and pieces of each theory that, when put together, give you a picture of the full truth. She did run away from the city to return to nature. No mysterious lover, though. No way she ever had the time for dating between her work hours. No alcoholic binges in Jersey, either.

One thing’s for sure: the mental breakdown part is true. She’s lucky she made it as long as she did on the consulting hamster wheel. Some people get thrown into a padded room when they snap. Some lose their jobs, relationships, and homes. That’s how Flora was different — she willingly gave those all up. She spent over three decades living by a set of rules she never signed up for. Screw the rules. Write your own. That’s what I did, anyway.

In a way, Flora died in Manhattan all those years ago. I left that depressed husk of a soul behind to disappear into nature. Some call me a witch now. See, you can’t even avoid the rumors when you hide yourself away in the forest upstate. They’re not wrong, though. I just use the abilities I’ve learned from the spirits that enchant these woods to sustain myself and protect the beautiful forest I call home. I can conjure any food I want with the harvest spell. Oh, and I place various curses on my old bosses to entertain myself. This week, I gave them fleas.

I have called this forest my home for many years now and have mastered many spells to create my paradise. I created my own rules. I no longer follow the traditional human lifecycle. It’s amazing what being unbothered for so long does to your lifespan. The magic helps a bit, too. First, do whatever you want. Second, don’t listen to anyone — that is, if they are foolish enough to enter your territory. Finally, don’t stick around the witch’s home any longer than you need to. That means that YOU should be on your way now. I’ve done more than enough talking for a lifetime — yours, anyway. Tell the world that Flora’s dead and that a silly old witch killed her! Ha!

For my friends

——————————————

ATTENTION: You are receiving a story from a slave—ahem—from an inmate inside the Bad People Department of Corrections. We are adding to our multi B-B-Billion dollar purse just by letting you communicate with our property. Please remain in the “grab your ankles, bitch” position as we continue to fuck society in the ass.

Thank you for your continued ignorance—hah, whoops…

Thank you for your cooperation :)

——————————————

Holy shit. Prison is nothing like County. Intake was just as violating, but this place is actually clean… ish. It smells like stale air and generic Windex rather than the lingering aroma of sewage pipes and boob sweat.

Walking through the unit, I see that there’s more than just 5 showers per 100 women, and every line has less than 10 zombies shuffling along in it. I must’ve won the lottery of prisons because County was nothing but endless wall-sliding and single-file, consuming your whole day just to eat, bathe, and call home.

The biggest mind fuck is my cell. I have a door that I can not only close, but I have keys to lock it. Even more shocking, my bunkie is apparently in the infirmary (so I’ll have privacy for once). All a far cry from the cramped pole barn at the jail where personal space is nonexistent. It’s like I just moved to a different planet. I’m hesitant to feel comfortable, but the slightly muffled noise from outside my closed cell is a bunch of sweet nothing compared to the echo chamber of hysteria I’ve lived in for the last 13 months.

I finish organizing my bunk and change into my standard-issued prison blues to try to make use of the day I have left. I lock up my cell and head towards the rec area to get in line for the mail kiosks. I’m feeling good because blue is so my color (and my husband’s favorite). He says it brings out my eyes. Oh, my heart! I can’t wait for our first visit next month! I just know he’s going to tell me how good I look in this dark indigo instead of that gross bright orange I’ve been wearing. We never had kids so he calls me his pride and joy, and I’m finally feeling like it again in this pretty color. I’ve learned to really appreciate the small things in life.

I hop in line for the kiosks so I can write a letter to my baby. I need to let him know I’ve made the transport safely. I don’t have a tablet yet, so I’ll have to type something quick on the big screen. The girl ahead of me is much younger, but she looks familiar with the place.

“Hey girl, what’s the time limit on the screens?” I ask in that high-pitched tone us females use when we want to appear harmless.

“Fifteen.” She replies over her shoulder.

Wow! We only got ten at County! Five whole extra minutes when you don’t have a tablet is a godsend. It’s a pain in the ass to type on the big screens that barely register your touch to begin with.

When my turn arrives, I see a new message from my husband… from today? Whoa! Mail actually comes on time here? It took up to 5 days to receive digital letters at the jail (even for short messages), and weeks for snail mail. I’m starting to feel like I’m in the twilight zone. Like this is all too good to be true. Let’s see what my dearest has sent me:

———

09/13/2023

10:13 AM

FROM: Ian Flores

TO: Jasmine Flores 11130013

Hey,

I hope the bus ride went smoothly this morning. Must’ve been a sauna in there without AC. The high is supposed to be 99 today. Please let me know when you’ve arrived. About to jump in the car with Pop. He’s ready to go to the airport now. Your sister wants to come for the drive. Pop’s flight was delayed to 12:13. He sends his love. Stay safe.

Ian

———

Aww! My baby just cares for me. I don’t know what I’d do without him. My husband is the only thing that keeps me sane as a prisoner. I’m actually excited about the future for the first time in over a year because I get to have family visits here. Well, with the family I have left, that is. My sister barely talks to me anymore, and the trial was hard on Pop’s heart. My father-in-law is the only parent I’ve ever known, and I’m the daughter he’s always wanted, but he doesn’t fly down as much now with his failing health. This whole situation has been tough on everyone.

The screen is slow to load, but the timer says I have just over 13 minutes left. I have a million things to tell my husband about this new world in Bad Girl Prison:

———

BPDOC INMATE ACCOUNT

11130013 Jasmine Flores

-Compose-

TO: Approved Contact:

Ian Flores

Hey babe,

Thank you so much for your well wishes. I made it in one piece. The travel time you looked up for me proved useless. I’m sure it will only take you about 1 hour to drive to the BGP, but for us, it took FOUR HOURS in that oven on wheels. They insisted on taking the back roads and confusing routes to make sure us “dangers to society” couldn’t ehscayp into populated areas. It took all day just to get to my new lockup.

I miss home so much, but I’m trying to stay focused on the positives. This new facility is MUCH nicer than expected. Prison is soooo different, babe. Well, this one is, at least. They try to make it look homey in the common areas, and there’s even decorations! They’re really pretty, actually. And guess what else? I heard the jobs here pay $1 per hour! ONE WHOLE DOLLAR, BABE!!! If I’m lucky enough to snag one, I could pay for my own medical visits! Yay! And get this: WE GET TO HAVE A 3 SECOND HUG AT THE BEGINNING AND END OF VISITS HERE!!! Oh, baby! I’m getting you know what just thinking about it! Will you wear that Tom Ford I bought for your bday for me? Mmm, I can’t wait!

I miss Pop already. Let me know how his next doctor appointment goes? I hope he’s feeling better. Tell him I’m so hungry that I could eat my chanclas. LOL! It’ll make him laugh. All we had was a sack lunch of slimy bologna and stale bread for the ride over. They should be calling last chow soon. I’ll let you know when I get my tablet and commissary. The money hasn’t gone through yet, but everything seems to run faster here so I’m sure I’ll get it tomorrow. Thank you for always keeping money on my books. You’re the light leading me home.

Hope you had a lovely day!

I love you!

Jazzy

PS: I tried calling right when I got to the unit but it says there’s no money on the phone. Perhaps you need to reset automatic payments for this new location? I’ll try to find out how that works. Thanks, babe.

———

I learned that I can’t write stuff like “escape” because the system will instantly deny my mail before the COs even read it (because I’ve typed a no-no word), and they don’t give refunds either. And I definitely can’t tell my husband I’m getting wet in anticipation of touching him for the first time in a year. A chick from County taught me to use bad spelling to have some freedom of speech in our letters.

I once got reprimanded for telling my own husband that I miss making love to him through the partition at the jail (shut it down folks, we’ve got a psychopath on our hands!). All the while, I had to watch certain male officers fuck us with their eyes every damn day. And since they don’t give a shit about those of us disabilities, they had no clue I could read their lips as they fucked us with their words, too.

The worst COs would sexually harass us right to our faces (both male and female). But, they can do that because they’re allowed to break the rules (and they get paid and praised for it). However, when the rest of us make mistakes, we don’t deserve to be human anymore. Scratch that—when you’ve been caught making mistakes. Until then, you get to walk around with a golden stick up your ass, shaking your finger at everyone else.

The screen confirms that my email has been sent 09/13/2023 at 16:13 PM. My account has been charged 1 stamp and—look at that! A whole 6 minutes to spare! Not too shabby! I’ll let the chick behind me step on early…

Wait! I’ve got a new message from Ian! Screw it, I’ll make a good impression another time. I’m taking this:

———

09/13/2023

15:13 PM

FROM: Ian Flores

TO: Jasmine Flores 11130013

We just got home. I want a divorce.

———

What the FUCK?! No. No, no, no! I read it over and over:

D-I-V-O-R-C-E

A divorce?! WHY?! How is this possible?! We’ve never so much as uttered the word “breakup,” let alone “DIVORCE!” Ian and Jazz are that couple who grow old together! And what does he mean by “we” just got home?! That’s our home! My fucking home! The house I bought for us! Is he talking about him and my sister?! Is he fucking my fucking sister?!? Has he just been using me this whole time to secure a way out? Is that why my sister stopped talking to me?! Or wait—did he fly home with his father?! What does he mean?! If he’s with my sister, I’m gonna fucking kill him. Everything was fine! Oh fuck, I’m gonna throw up…

I rush to the giant rubber trash can secured to the wall next to the kiosk and quickly puke my guts out. I hear a couple women in the line laughing at me as I leap to grab my last 5 minutes, but the chick who was behind me has already taken my place.

“Hey, sorry, I had 5 minutes left. Can I go back? Please? It’s urgent.” I plead to her in a guttural, low-pitched tone.

“You snooze you loose. Well, more like ‘you puke you lose.’ Yuck. Go to the back of the line. Your breath stinks.” She doesn’t even look up from the screen as she shoos me away.

I race to the back of the line. There’s 6 people ahead of me. With 3 machines, that’s up to 30 minutes of waiting just to send a “WTF” to my husband. My husband! The love of my life! I feel like I’m about to shit my pants. My whole world is spinning. What the fuck is happening?! I shift from one foot to the other, holding my stomach as I wait.

Just as I’m about to take my turn on the next available screen, they blow an emergency count. The siren is deafening and my head is already pounding.

“No! Please! I just need one minute!” I beg the officer headed our way to wrangle us back to our cells.

“Sorry. No can do. You’ve got 3 minutes to be in your bunk. Go on, get!” He, too, shoos me away like a dog.

I speed walk in the direction of my cell, ducking under the stairs to save a few seconds, as if that will help count go faster. I’m already calculating the time it will take to tally every single woman in the prison. My stomach turns even more.

They sound the alarm again, signaling the end of a successful count. I immediately race back to the mail kiosks. A woman gets on the loud speaker to call our unit for chow, but there’s no way I can eat now. Maybe I can grab a phone when everyone is at dinner. I hope the money went through. Shit, now I’m unsure if Ian put money on my accounts at all.

I have no way of accessing what’s left of my funds without Ian. How will I buy my necessities? I don’t even have tampons yet and my period is supposed to start this week. The pads the DOC gave me in my indigent kit couldn’t absorb a ball of spit, let alone my endometriosis horrorshow. The last few e-stamps on my account are my only hope. I need to find out what the fuck is going on. I hope Ian hasn’t blocked me by now. No. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t leave me all alone in here. Would he?

The same douchebag officer stops me just before reaching the kiosks.

“Phones and screens just went down. You’ll have to try back after dinner.” He scoffs while holding his duty belt, creating a firm barricade between me and my only link to the outside world.

“Sir, please! It’s urg—"

The CO stops me by putting his hand in front of my face.

“Go to the chow hall or back to your cell! NOW!” He commands, pointing his finger over my shoulder, waiting for me to turn around and leave.

I huff away, knowing full well he can give me a ticket for “poor attitude,” but I couldn’t care less right now.

I storm into my cell, lock the door behind me, and climb up to my bunk. I plop down onto the 3 inch mat and shove my face into the flat pillow so I can scream. My anger is boiling.

We’ve been married for eighteen fucking years. Together for twenty. It’s always been just the two of us. Ian and Jazz against the world because we are the perfect couple—minus my convictions. But my side hustle paid off our mortgage! We would’ve been homeless without it! All because my darling husband ruined our legitimate business. When we went under, I found a way to keep our heads above water. Me! I’m the one who paid off all our debt. How could he leave me like this? And without explanation? Now I’m here, paying our debt to society for the both of us! Like always! Am I really this easy to throw away? After all I’ve done?!

My thoughts spin out of control, and before I know it, the stress of today knocks me out cold.

I wake up startled by the horn, not realizing where I even am. Oh—it’s final count. I wave at the flashlight shining into my dark cell through the window to prove I am where I’m supposed to be. I see the silhouette of someone walking in front of the light. A woman unlocks my door and enters the cell. She reaches for the lamp below me and flicks it on. It’s my bunkie, back from the infirmary. She’s very young and frail looking. She waits for the second horn and closes the door, locking us in for the night.

“Hey.” She says quietly, looking up at me as I stare down at her.

“Hey.” I reply softly.

We both instantly recognize deep sadness in each other.

“I’m Sandra. You just get here?” She asks, trying to be polite despite her obvious melancholy.

“Yeah, earlier today. I’m Jasmine, but everyone calls me Jazz. How long you been here?” I ask, trying to match conversation.

“I got transferred here 3 weeks ago, but this is my second time down… and last…” Her voice dwindles.

“You come from County, too?” I ask.

“No, the Max. Way out in the woods. I just made Level 2 after seven months there. I worked hard to complete my treatment plan in time for… whatever. Now I’m here.” She looks away, hiding her pain.

I heard a couple of female guards gossiping about my bunkie when they assigned my cell. She apparently took a murder plea for stabbing her husband to death after he beat her for years. If that’s true, I say he had it comin’ and he ran his damn self into her knife. Ugh, I shouldn’t think like that. How horribly sad for her and her family. But, it must’ve been a good deal to not fight a murder case like that—any murder case. I want to find out more, but I’ve learned not to ask about people’s cases. She’ll tell me eventually if she wants me to know. I just hope she has a chance to get out someday, as young as she is.

Sandra finishes organizing her things and slowly sits down on her bunk, wincing loudly in pain.

“Hey, you okay?” I hop down from the top bunk to see if she needs help. “You were in the infirmary, right?”

“Down the road at Saint Mary’s, actually. Or ‘Hell Mary’s’ more like it.” She holds her hips in pain and lowers the elastic waistband of her bottoms to find comfort. That’s the first time I notice her big belly.

“Oh! Did you just have a baby?!” I ask in excitement, but immediately realize my mistake and apologize with my expression.

She stares up at me in despair as tears rush into her eyes, trying to muster a response.

“Yeah.” Her voice cracks.

The pain on Sandra’s face is haunting. That’s not just the “baby blues,” that’s someone who’s been through torture. Oh my God… I can see the marks on her wrists from being shackled while giving birth.

“I’m gonna get some sleep. Nice meeting you.” She whispers.

Sandra turns to her side and kicks her slides off the bed. She’s clearly in too much agony to even change into her casuals. I see her inmate number splayed across the back of her blues. Oh, no. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Her number is my wedding date: 10132005. Well, I guess October 13th used to be my anniversary. I’ve always had shit luck, Pop even says that I must’ve been born under a bad sign, but this feels like a cruel joke from God. And what happened to Sandra is just fucking cruel.

“Goodnight.” My voice trails, failing to offer her any comfort because I’m a sad sack of shit.

I climb back up to my bunk. Sandra waits for me to get settled to turn off her lamp. Her kindness makes my heart ache even more.

This is insane! I woke up this morning the same Jazz I’ve been for the last 18 years. I’d never felt special until I became Mrs. Jasmine Flores. Ian always called me his spring flower when we were newlyweds. I hate my maiden name. Am I plain old Jasmine Withers again? Oh, God… old. What will a middle-aged woman with no family and a record do on the outside? I’ll be forty-fucking-six and ten years gone when I’m released. Who’s gonna give a shit about me now? Nobody knows you when you’re down and out. Shit, I don’t even know me. The only identity I’m absolutely sure of right now is 11130013.

The shapes of the room fade to black, but my mind refuses settle. I toss over in frustration, making both bunks squeak and clank. As soon as the clatter stops, I hear Sandra start to cry.

Holy fuck. This poor girl. She just gave birth and can’t even hold her child—hell, can’t even see her child—when all mom and baby need are each other right now. Captivity breeds madness, but being forced apart from all that you know and love… that’s the real punishment.

I can already imagine ignorant ass people talking their shit about someone like Sandra. They would say she’s not a “real” mother, or that she doesn’t deserve her child. But I can feel her maternal desperation in my bones with every uncontrollable wail coming from her soul. It’s the most agonizing sound I’ve ever heard.

I begin to cry along with Sandra, trying to hide my own sorrows in her sobs. I feel pathetic for drowning in self pity when she is going through something much worse, but my pain hurts, too. It really hurts! And it’s all my fault. What have I done to my marriage? To my life? I did this! Me!

In our own way, no matter how much time we get, we are all serving (and giving) life sentences. We will always be paying for our mistakes, and no amount of pain in here can fix the pain out there. It just creates more pain for innocent people who don’t deserve to be motherless, daughterless… wifeless. I don’t know how to fix any of this, but hurting more people can’t be the answer… can it?

The sounds of Sandra’s loud, painful bellowing causes women from other cells to start shouting all over the unit.

Woman 1: “I’m trying to sleep!”

Woman 2: “Stop being a little bitch, Sandra! I had to do it, too! Shut the fuck up!”

Woman 3: “YOU shut the fuck up, Dee! Put your headphones on, you heartless bitch!”

Woman 4: “JUST SHUT UP!!!”

Woman 5: “Y’all bitches are crazy! Haha! Craaazaaay weeoo weeoo!”

The douchebag guard from earlier comes to our door and bangs on the window, scaring Sandra and I so bad that we both jump.

“Hey, Flores! How do you like it here? Hah! Welcome to the machine!” He taunts me loudly, making sure I know I’m on his shit list. I can hear the other guards laughing, joining in his schadenfreude.

Ah, yes. There it is. This is more like the punishment I deserve. Nonstop chaos. The optimism I had when I arrived was but a momentary lapse of reason. Prison isn’t this cozy, decorated home they’re trying to fool us with. It’s fucking prison: a torture chamber designed to destroy human beings… and it is succeeding.

The personal laments of 100 women continue to fill the thick, nobody gives a shit atmosphere. I cover my head to shut out the madness, but it’s just no use. There will be little sleep as this symphony of destruction plays in the BGP tonight.

This has been the worst day of my life…

And it’s just day one.

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PRISON BLUES

A “Those Damn Enigmas” Production

This is a work of fiction. However, it was written with real men and women at heart, because their stories matter. They, matter.

There are moments like these, in the white point of the storm

where the sky and earth kiss behind the mist, form one

and you have to close your eyes to see etched in the darkness

the sparks of sunlight reflected across the snowy peaks

Beauty is in your own hands, and everything touches.

Others when you are between two corners of a table

you slice an apple into quarters, almost perfectly divided

don't hesitate about who you'll give the biggest piece to

and when you do they smile, because things are clear and cut

and you put the block-like core to compost.

you cannot slice through a storm, so when you lose sight of heaven and earth

when the alaskan glaciers pave every street, when the seeds are uprooted

will you stay in the house you love

fix up the peeling wallpaper, cut the remaining apples into cores

or will you go, right into the white point of the storm?

Currents move on with or without you, storms will stop and start,

And as you hesitate, the choice is made for you

So go, stay, slice, choose to close your eyes or open them,

the only error is to falter, and not admit

that you see where the mist starts and the corners begin

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

What does dating a mortician, roadkill shoutouts, Shakespeare, tons of talent new to the site and our resident legends, a bad haircut, and over the counter flu meds have in common? The answer needs to be, "Nothing," but in today's video, each of those elements, and a few more, collide into each haiku in our last Challenge of the Week being read, after introducing the new Challenge of the Month, with a bit of pizzazz on this one.

Here's that link.

https://www.theprose.com/challenge/14207

And here's the link to the video on The Prose. Channel. I know for sure I dropped or misread a few words or usernames, but show mercy, if you would. I'll tag some of the writers in the comments, and a few writers new to Prose.

And, to them, from us: Big family home here. Pick a room, and walk downstairs for the feast, whenever you feel like it. Welcome home.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-FIElCwRN3Y

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

I told my story to every police officer that would listen. Then to every police officer who was ordered to listen. Then to the wind. By this time, the police no longer listened. Or child protective services. Or lawyers. Or any of the people who derive their income from the tax rolls, who should be listening.

I encountered the most apathetic people on planet Earth.

So I stopped talking.

Then I grew up.

Then I plotted my revenge.

Today I will exact a measure of retribution equivalent to that I lost when I was ten.

I waited eighteen years for today.

I will have my birthday cake next week.

They will not.

On the day I turned ten years old, I became a crime statistic. Two brothers, Jacob and Jeremy snatched me at gunpoint on my way home from school. They hit me hard enough to knock me out. I awoke in the back of their van with a blindfold on. Both my hands and feet were tied. The brothers went as far as gagging me to prevent me from screaming. For the two hours they drove, they played the radio loud enough to drown out the whimpering of a small child.

When the van stopped, my life stopped, and my terror began. In full panic mode, I resisted as best I could. One of the brothers assured me that if I behaved, it would all be over soon.

He lied.

What I endured for the nest three days amounted to a series of gang raping on four hour intervals. Sometimes I had to satisfy one of the brothers; most of the time, I had to submit to the desires of both. For the nest three days, I became their toilet, their cleaning tool, their punching bag, and their bitch. They broke my right ulna and radius, my jaw, and seven of my fingers. Their fists managed to dislodge four incisors and three molars. They burned my back with their cigarettes and my hair with their cigarette lighters. I was their switchblade pin cushion and lost a kidney in the process. After 72 hours, they left me for dead in that abandoned trailer. I heard Jacob asking Jeremy to set it on fire to erase all the evidence. Jeremy said he heard people coming, so they both left. Those people coming chased the brothers but found no reason to investigate further. I untied myself on

day four and escaped. I collapsed on a rural road were a kindly truck driver found me and took me to a nearby hospital. The report stated he did not stay to make a statement to the police.

I have been alone ever since.

Except for today.

Today, I have in my possession, two hermetically sealed rooms adjoined by a single door. In the first room is Mr. Jacob, now a father of two very beautiful twin girls, soon to enter their junior year of high school. At this age, most children believe their father “just doesn’t get it”. Not so for Mr. Jacob.

Apparently, in the ensuing years since he made my acquaintance, he has become a pillar of society and a model parent. The proprietor of a small coffee shop, Jacob has much to lose and very little to gain. I feel no pity while reciting Jacob's accolades. I lost the ability to feel in my trailer.

In the adjacent room sits Mr. Jeremy. Time has not provided him with an abundance of people skills and not much in the way of formal education. He is currently nursing a rather nasty head wound and sports a cast over his left forearm. The cast and wound are fresh. I expected as much from him and allotted two additional days for him to “try” to treat his wounds. I might have provided medical care, but, alas, I lost some dexterity in my fingers around my 10th birthday. His 2nd wife and three step children will have not missed him during his absence. That was a foregone conclusion.

To recap, Jacob is on his first day of captivity, Jeremy is on his third.

Let the games begin.

I have an intercom system built into the fourteen foot high concrete ceilings. I also have two hidden cameras in each room. I have welded all exits and provided neither food nor water. The rooms are well lit, but have no amenities at all. With the common door closed and locked, I clear my throat (I still feel their choke holds every time I do this) and address (using a voice scrambler) each brother together.

00:00/1 (time index/day) – “Greetings! Welcome to your new home. Feel free to look around and welcome your new roommate. I will return with further instructions later.” The cameras record Jeremy’s cursing and Jacob’s astonishment. I will continue recording their every action. If it was good enough for me then, it will be good enough for them today.

04:00/1 – “Please stay clear of the door as it opens. I would not wish either of you to become harmed in any way”. I turn off the microphone and watch each brother greet and question the other. Jacob remains skeptical of Jeremy’s involvement. Jeremy keeps asking for food.

08:00/1 – “Now that you have had sufficient time to become reacquainted, please allow me a few moments to discuss your predicament. The two of you have been very bad. I know your secrets. I also know what each of you is capable of. Today, you will learn what I am capable of. Both of you are locked in a set of sealed rooms with one way out. One of you will have to please me. The other one will have to die. No other alternative is possible. Should either of you chose not to please me in the manner by which I have become accustomed, both of you will starve to death in these rooms. I will leave you for a few hours so you may plan a futile escape and wonder who controls your sorry state of affairs.”

12:00/1 – I watch the brothers sleep on the floor in an effort to conserve energy. Jeremy is in pain and is no longer speaking. Jacob rests with one eye open. He may be the smarter of the two, only time will tell. “Greetings again! It is time to wake up and listen to your final set of instructions. I will not repeat myself”. I mute the microphone and watch their reaction. Jeremy is as predictable as a sunrise. He pounds the walls and curses a myriad of names to no avail. Jacob, as stoic as ever, listens. He is also calculating. This is a behavior I did not witness years before. It takes years to refine such patience. I gave him those years. It will be the only present Jacob will ever receive from me. Ever.

Composing myself, I begin broadcasting. “Previously, I mentioned only one of you will exit the rooms. The other one will die. What I did not mention was the manner by which you will kill your brother. While I have an enormous variety of manners to choose from, each one a particular favorite of one or both of you, I have settled on a simple castration. To exit these rooms, the winner must accomplish this simple task. You must be feeling both thirsty and hungry by now. It is conceivable that neither of you have the fortitude to survive. But, I am both optimistic and extremely patient. As the minutes elapse, your hunger will grow and your defenses will weaken. Smart money says when one of you decides to live, the other will decide also. Fight if you must. Use whatever you have at your disposal to force submission. Then, finish what you started. Display all the grotesque behaviors both of you are sick enough to reveal. I will watch and rate your performance. By the way, I no longer have any interest in what you may have to say or what questions you want answered. To hear your voices, only spoils my dinner. In case you are wondering, I am dining on a petite steak and asparagus. Until then gentlemen, and I use the term lightly, remember to please me.”

That monologue took minutes to write, but years to draw the courage to read. After I disconnected the microphone, I sat back and watched. The horror show would not begin immediately, but begin it would. You could take the men from the blood-lust, but you couldn’t take the blood-lust from the men. Not these men. I am betting on it.

21:45/1 – The fighting begins.

21:51/1 – Brotherhood takes over. Jeremy’s broken cast matches Jacob’s concussion. It is only a matter of time.

00:02/2 – Sneak attack by Jeremy. His mouth is bloody. Jacob’s shoulder is equally bloody.

02:04/2 – Jacob defends another attack from Jeremy by kicking the previously broken arm. Jeremy passes out from the pain and exhaustion. Jacob flips the finger to me. He doesn’t see any cameras, but he must know they exist. Calmly, Jacob removes his shirt to cover Jeremy to prevent shock. Nice touch, but I still believe he is playing to the camera. I can wait.

08:00/2 – Jeremy has not moved and may not be able to. Jacob holds his brother and is crying. If Jeremy dies, I will not lose any sleep.

12:00/2 – Jacob has placed his shirt over Jeremy’s head. Four days without food or water was too much for Jeremy. Jacob is still defiant to the end. I am still patient.

12:00/6 – Both of the brothers have died from thirst or starvation or whatever it took to kill these two. Got to give Jacob credit though; he could have played the game, but he declined. Maybe he changed over the years. I still have my doubts. Not cares, just doubts.

12:00/7 – I break out my respirator and gloves and enter the “tomb” to personally see these two dead bodies. They look awful and most likely smell worse. But, I have to know why Jacob never turned on Jeremy. I steel myself for flashbacks.

I unzip Jacob’s pants and remove his underwear. Jeremy had every reason to attack Jacob.

I move to Jeremy and remove his pants and boxers.

Jacob could never have won.

The massive amount of scar tissue was the only amount of anything present.

Someone beat me in my own game.

Someone got to Jeremy before I did.

Jacob must have known that he could have never won.

Unlike the brothers, I did set fire to the rooms to erase all evidence.

I can now celebrate birthdays again.

But, I am still not pleased.

Yea, they wiped his memory, but what’ll they do about:

The memories of the parents of those four young girls he raped and murdered.

The memories of the husband and child of that one woman he tortured.

His own parents, and grandparents, none of which will still venture out in public.

That dog he skinned alive.

That kid and his bike who disappeared from his fourth grade class.

That same kid’s younger sister who barely got away, and lives everyday in fear.

Who knows who else?

What about those people’s memories? You gonna swipe them too?

Screw that son of a bitch. Fry him already.