I've been playing around with the books feature here and I wanted to share what I've made and some brief thoughts as a user of seven(ish) years:

I've been sitting on a stack of writing that I haven't had any clear direction for but knew that I wanted to put out in some way. The books feature is neat because it allows me to do this in a way that is structured and easily customizable. I like to have creative control, and this gives it to me. So I would encourage anyone who wants to organize their work into an easily accessible collection to try it out. This is my first time giving it a go, and my first impressions are generally favorable. There are some technical issues, but I assume those will be addressed in time. There's authors who were way earlier to the game than I was and they are a wealth of information and deserve props for being pioneers. I really love the idea of being able to find a writer and peruse a book they've written and see posts that may have flown under the radar otherwise.

You can post the books for free, for a flat flee or on a chapter by chapter basis. Right now, I have a mix of free content, paid content, and subscriber only writing. Some of my books are for a flat fee, some are chapter by chapter, and others are are now, and will always be free. A high percentage of my posts will be openly available, and my "edgier" (however you want to define that) or more extensive standalone pieces will likely be subscriber only. I will always have this mix of paid and unpaid elements, though there are details to be worked out. I'm still figuring it out, especially with the addition of Lobby, Mezz, and Emerald.

I still have work reserved for traditional(ish) publishing outlets, but most of my stuff is here on Prose. I've set my subscription cost at 3.33. But as I said, I intend to keep a lot of stuff free or at the very least, available at a low cost. As of right now, the books are unfinished, evolving entities and will continue to be updated for the next little while as Prose. continues to fine tune the changes on the site. Some elements of them are free and some are subscriber/purchaser only. Writing is a career for me, so subscription and purchases make a big impact. That said, we live in exceptionally difficult times. So please don't feel obligated to do either. Take care of yourselves first.

Also, if you want to show support to a writer that either can't or doesn't want to put their work behind a paywall, there is a now a tip feature.

I am pulling from a fifteen year old body of unpublished work, so it will be some time before these are complete collections and will be added and subtracted to many times until they are complete. But here are my published projects so far:

Best Of: TheWolfeDen- a collection of popular works, challenge winners, and personal favorites

Goddess- poetry and prose inspired by female spiritual figures

Labyrinth- stream-of-conscious writing focused on self-reflection and patterns of behavior

Gardenia- poetry and prose inspired by the natural world

Stuff and Things- a chaotic collection of random writing

The Sins of Aphrodite- poetry, prose, and creative non-fiction centered around love, heartbreak, and everything in between

Skeptics and Soothsayers- works inspired by esotericism, religion, and spirituality

Psychonaut- creative non-fiction drawn from psychedelic experiences

Kintsugi- essays and memoir style creative non-fiction

Dreamscape- dreamy prose and poetry

Dungeoncrawler Daydreams- fantasy/sci-fi/horror short fiction

Kingdom- a medieval poetry collection

Justice- a mythical murder mystery series

Madame Kavindra's Freakshow Theatre- a horror(ish) anthology (in progress)

I've tagged people that I think would be interested in this. Thanks for your support (however you choose to give it).

Hello, Beautiful, Brilliant Beasts of Boulevards and Poems and Stories and such:

H1 wrote in suggesting we feature a post from GentlmanBastard's, "1ST DAY IN PRISON CHALLENGE," and the suggested post was a story submitted by LilEnigma, titled, Prison Blues.

So it was written, and so it was done, and here is the link to the reading of this ridiculously good story.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z0PimgKxGkA

And.

As always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Hello, Beautiful, Brilliant Beasts of Boulevards and Poems and Stories and such:

H1 wrote in suggesting we feature a post from GentlmanBastard's, "1ST DAY IN PRISON CHALLENGE," and the suggested post was a story submitted by LilEnigma, titled, Prison Blues.

So it was written, and so it was done, and here is the link to the reading of this ridiculously good story.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z0PimgKxGkA

And.

As always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

The shape and sound of words are often lost in their meaning, especially when it comes to my all time favorite word: FUCK. I know, FUCK can be hit or miss for people. It’s a word that won’t get a second thought beyond acceptability, but FUCK is so much more! It is a very efficient word that holds endless meaning and is rarely ever confused. No matter what language you speak (including ASL), there’s no mistaking FUCK. Therefore, I feel FUCK is the perfect example to illustrate my preference for both the sound and shape of words.

Let’s start with a comparison: Paraskavedekatriaphobia is my fun word, but it only offers auditory enjoyment. Visually, it is an absolute train wreck, but it’s a blast to say and exciting to hear. I love to say it quickly, like a party trick in social settings, because it rolls right off the tongue (believe it or not). But when it comes to FUCK, oh no… FUCK is said slowly. Even if it is said in a burst of fear, or when it’s popped off in quick succession whilst unloading a clip of anger, FUCK is said with seductive patience (no matter the context). With FUCK, you’ll never be left tongue tied.

Hence, in my opinion, it’s the sound of words that first make them so grand to us. I feel this is especially so for us women (who tend to fall in love with our ears), compared to our male counterparts (who tend to fall in love with their eyes). Men are wooed by the physical attractiveness of a sexual partner, and a woman is ultimately wooed by the things her love interest says to her. By design, FUCK has something for everyone.

The sound of a word can stir up a slew of emotions (just see what happens when you shout the word “moist” in a crowd). But FUCK is literally therapeutic to say, even just in your mind when you can’t express yourself freely. That hhhhhard F followed by the conviction of the -UCK makes it feel like a punch to the face you actually want. Or, and I know this is a bit on the nose, it’s like that moment your man walks in the door from a long haul away from home, rams it in hhhhhard and fast, holds it there, grabs a fistful of your hair, and then kisses you… all while looking straight into your begging eyes. He uses that rush of adrenaline to make the most passionate love to you whilst every nerve in your body is set ablaze. Communicating only with his most primitive anatomy, he somehow transports you to the cosmos, right there on your kitchen counter. Like any drug, nothing compares to that first taste, so you better make it count (and FUCK never disappoints). Your brain and body light the FUCK up, every damn time like it’s the first time, because FUCK is a physical expression in itself to say.

However, like many words, the appearance of FUCK is easily overshadowed by its sound. The sharp F and K on the ends tightly embrace the rounded U and C, like a strong father and tough-as-nails mother, protecting their fragile children and holding the family together. FUCK is like the family portrait hung above the fireplace. Look at that beautiful FUCK! So nice and cozy, too! Ironically, if a child writes or says the word FUCK, it makes everyone laugh, and once again, a rush of feel-good ensues. Aww, so precious! FUCK can be enjoyed by the whole family!

For me, personally, FUCK has been my favorite word since I was a kid (thanks to that brilliant FUCK, Quentin Tarantino, and my general obsession with films). FUCK is just part of my everyday vocabulary. Not because I am overtly crass (comedic necessity aside), nor am I nasty to people. I know when to put on my mandated dress and high heels to please, and I truly care about others (so I’m never trying to offend you). It is simply because FUCK efficiently invokes the passion I desire. Despite its negative uses and bad rap, FUCK holds so much beauty. There’s no need to clutch your pearls at this sweet little word—well, unless it’s a pearl necklace created in glorious FUCK itself. In which case, enjoy that warm hug and clutch away.

Lastly, to support my love for all things FUCK, and to convince you that there’s nothing to fear, I’d like to mention a cute little runner-up. The word “butthole” is endlessly funny to me. It’s like a punchline to a joke, no matter how you say it or when it’s used. Butthole is a full yet tight looking word. It has shapely, round letters, garnished with 2 proper gentleman in bowties shoved right in between. But most importantly, it can usually slip right through all the censorship we are forced to endure. Censorship is something I’m adamantly against because it takes away my choice to experience the real world. But, a friendly butthole can really soften the blow, and give us all a break from the back and forth of typical norms. Relax, butthole is here now.

However, if someone does tell you to censor “butthole,” I offer the words of the lyrical and vocal genius, Maynard James Keenan:

“If you figure out how to not have a butthole, then I’ll change it.”

Similarly, if you feel my favorite word should be censored, then show me human existence without FUCK, and I’ll buttholeheartedly fall on this sword. I digress…

I proffer the auditory and visual aspects of all words can help us embrace their beauty, far beyond meaning alone. Like anything, it merely comes down to individual preference. Between shape and sound, there will always be times when one feels better than the other… ButtFUCK, I sure do love a healthy dose of both.

Linguistically the word of distinction for me is "Psyche," for the way it boggles the eye, ear, and mind. Were a child or nonnative speaker to apply basic English phonics unguided, what would that sound like-- puhswhycheh?

There is something insidious about the silent P, and the refusal of the ch to be read as its proper digraph, as well as the sneakily audible eee-- all of which combined seem to leverage the sight/sound of the term into synapsis of a mental oddity.

The dictionary offers Sī-kē, as pronunciation, which makes me visualize Greek goddesses and sure enough, Psyche is the one with butterfly wings, ruling over the Soul.

Yet, when saying the word aloud, I draw a blank as to how we should ink that-- Sighky?--and suddenly the word seems poignantly sad, like an old armoire whose small skeleton key has been retrievably lost over the years, in the course of moving about.

Knowing the articulation and spelling and etymology, I'm further confounded by the Rubik's cube of consonants tied to one final precipitous vowel. I can't help but think, is this the epitome of our Thinking? and what if one were to neglect, or forget, to say that all so critical eeee--?

Psych[e]: the mind playing tricks on itself, eh?!

Nebular night dawns,

miraculous pneumatic,

womb full of wonder.

Prodigal star burns,

more powerful than the Sun,

drunk on Milky Way.

Behemoth rises,

iron-heart stellar giant,

weapon of chaos.

Supernova shines,

a celestial sacrifice,

erupting twilight.

Armageddon fades.

Halo slips into the black…

belly of the beast.

Photo:

Cosmic Consciousness

Original artwork by the one and only Alex Grey. Please enjoy his creations at alexgrey.com

There are a lot of causes undoubtedly worthy of bringing to light: things that need taking care of by Others. I think of human trafficking, of the perils of war-torn peoples, of migrants, of so-called illegals, and those living in peripheral shadows in fear of identity and consequential inequity in treatment whether national, ethnic, racial, religious, gender or other isolating factor(s). Causes needing advocates.

Self-care might not seem to be one of these, and yet there is something in it that troubles me, as an underlying problem that reaches across various boundaries. It's a "buzz word," mostly farcical, lacking in substance, that I'm hearing floating, and it is I believe in need of someone to actually stand behind it. I notice that "leadership" have administratively adopted proactive rhetoric-- as if speaking of something addresses the problem in itself.

"We care for you, remember to self-care! your patients, guests, customers, sufferers, etc. are needing your care and services! so take care of yourself as well!" is the exclamation at the end of professional development "training," geared towards public servants, which fails to address with any intent how that should be done? The words dissipate into the wind.

In my observation it is all too common that caretakers do not know, neither instinctively nor by training, how to take care of themselves while taking care of groups or individuals who are ill, traumatized, or suffering from other impairment, grievance or loss. I call to mind burnt out group home managers, hospice workers, human and animal shelter employees, among others, even in less extreme cases, such as struggling parents or grandparents.

It is notable, but ignored, that the self-sacrificing are exactly that: self-sacrificing.

I've determined, that to help correct this imbalance, I can support the service of others in difficult decisions that feel counter to ethics. I mean personal ethics. For instance, I know from observation over years that the hard-working individual feels great shame in taking a sick day, never mind a mental health day. I'd like to advocate that individuals take every day off allotted to them with self-permission. Not with arrogance ("I earned it"); but with grace ("forbearance and maintenance"). Also, that they set boundaries; rather than expect 24/7 mental or physical operation, in whatever public service.

I realize that the guilt and self-beratement, internally, is difficult to overcome, but perhaps having support from an ordinary person on the street, even if only a single banner of solidarity, not so much Protest, might potentially provide that moment of recollection for a few, and eventually a few more, that all Selves are important and in need of respectable treatment. I mean Self-Respect.

Holding up a single sign seems a feeble effort, and perhaps I delude myself that those so burdened, with the problems of others, would see a heart as a one held up for themselves? A risk, one might counter, because those who are "pretenders" may arguably use this banner as excuse to put in less effort. But, then again, those are not the individuals I am concerned about, nor standing for-- the half-hearted it seems always know how to take care of themselves.

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.

From the stars, I rise

stumbling through the sunlight

Borne from Diyu's haze

Summoning cherubs

winking at simplicities

Consequence, she waits

Roots seek quiet earth,

sacred bonds of creation

Like the bud, I bloom

As dust seeks trinkets

I convene with time's good grace--

The pale horse beckons

I sift through the ash

dancing into stretched shadows

With the stars, I meld

An emergence,

the glimmer of ignorance

Hope unmarred,

a dance with clear,

but careless steps

Yet, somehow–

nurtured disappointment is

sewn to elusive nature,

balanced webs spinning

fables within the strangest

of dreamscapes...

Hard earned lessons found

sinking, sinking,

sinking as the world

demands too much

Even through the bliss

of honeysuckle lips and

jasmine nights, delicate

curvature pulled taut

by the absence of time,

there lives a yearning

for completion, to be fastened

to the wholeness of strength

and its complexities

and though the open petals

glisten sweetly in

the softlight of the moon,

though the grip is firm, desperate,

it knows where peace will lie--

the fates do as they please

Bound to the spinning of the

wheel, daggers nick limbs,

expose bone, and forces the angel

to fall, weeping, mourning,

as grace dissolves into the sea

The North Star mocks with the way

she defies the moon and darts

hopelessly from the sun

But time, slipping through

crooked, calloused fingers

its granules catching beneath

splitting, deficient nails, cares little

for the trivialities of

honeysuckle dreams and the way

hopeful hands tremble

within the clock face

Nature, the ageless coquette

succubus, seductress,

ferocious in her passion

opens herself, promising peace

within the warmth

of her earthen bed

Rest, she whispers,

Time won't find us here.