I drove down to Tijuana and went to jail. In there I was beaten repeatedly. I was arrested for absolutely nothing. One minute, I was walking past a prostitute after I had parked and locked my car, walking around Mars, past the strange billboards and faces destroyed by poverty, in a town destroyed and dependent upon lust and drugs. I was walking around people who hated me for needing me. The poor sat in file on the sidewalks, their palms out. The faces on the necks reminded me of shrunken fruit. The owners of strip joints and street-side booths were happy to see me. Their English was broken and desperate. The prostitute followed me. She was offering me anything. Her face was a novel. It was carved throughout with lines of grief, with angry knuckles and damage from the sun. Her hair was like black straw electrified on its post. Her eyes were sorry. Her whole self almost brought me to tears. I reached into my pocket in the middle of that dark orange sea and handed her a fivespot. She handed me a crumpled baggie with nothing in it. She hustled off. The next minute, I was dropped on my face, cuffed and stuffed and wiping the blood from my forehead onto the back of a torn leather headrest.

In jail the big Mexicans pummeled me in turn. One tried to get my pants off. I fought them wildly. After a while they gave up, from time to time walking by the corner I was thrown into and kicking me, spitting on me. The cops held me for nine hours, took everything I had and kicked me in the ass, out into the dark. Back at my car, my rear windshield was gone and the whole car was gutted, save the driver’s seat. They even got the mirrors. My bike was gone, my music, my books, my backpack, my life. They had my keys back in that dungeon. I could feel the Mexicans laughing at me behind the rusted bars. They were sitting on that diseased, urine stained concrete with no windows, sweating and laughing about me. I broke off my ignition switch with a rock so I could turn the wheel. I had never jump started a car before. I learned quickly. The guards at the border showed no interest in my face.

I drove to Yuma, bitterly. I was low on fuel. It was December. The desert was cold but my face burned with a heat I’d never known. I pulled into a gas station and explained to the Indian behind the counter what had happened. He shook his head. I asked him for ten dollars in gas so I could get to Phoenix. He said nope. Up the street I found a Shell station. The old lady said that I could gas up and she would treat it like a drive off. In the bathroom I locked the door and looked in the mirror. I looked like a mask. My whole face was twisted and swollen. I looked diseased. I fell back against the door and sank to the ground.

I drove north with a sympathy cup of coffee and a full tank. The wind from the opening in back chilled my neck and shoulders, the exhaust billowed inside and choked me, made me sick. The smell flavored my coffee. One of my eyes had just swollen shut so I drove the limit, confused.

I reached Phoenix before dusk. At a stoplight, two girls stared at me like I was an animal. I could feel them. They honked. I looked over. They were laughing with the two guys that were in the backseat. No mercy. By the time I found my sister’s house I was sick from the exhaust and the desert on top of the germs from the floor of the jail spreading under the cuts. I was certain I could not go on for another second. The house was empty. She had moved.

I called one of my brothers collect in Illinois, woke him up. He gave me her new address. He asked me how I was and so on. During the conversation I would throw up while he was talking. I told him everything was fine and that I was home for a while, at least until after the holidays. He told me he loved me. I threw up. I made it back to my car and used up the rest of my strength finding the address.

I parked. Her house was bigger. I could see the Christmas tree in the window. I had nothing to carry inside. She lived in a better part of town. I hadn’t spoken to her for a long time. I thought it was funny this would be the second time in a row I showed up at her place badly beaten. Only this time was worse. I had long hair and was older, taller, a little heavier from working labor. I didn’t want her to see it. I made it to the door and pushed the ringer.

One of my nieces answered. She stared at me. I asked her why she wasn’t in school. She ran back down the hall yelling for my sister. I walked into the doorway. She came out dressed for work. When she saw me she screamed. I broke out laughing. I couldn’t help it. She pulled me in. I stank. When she tried to hug me I stopped her and told her I was in too much pain. She wanted to take me to the hospital. I waved it off.

“Who did this to you?”

“The Mexicans.”

She wanted to stay home from work. I told her she didn’t need to waste a day’s pay watching me sleep. I was glad she wasn’t crying. If I never saw a woman cry again it would be too soon. I told her not to make too much out of it. I asked her not to tell anybody I was in town. I made her go to work. I walked into the living room and fell over the arm of the couch and landed on the cushions. I passed out instantly.

I saw the last two years float by on a string. I saw Los Angeles, Venice, Kim’s mouth opening larger than my head and swallowing it, coughing out a tear. I saw Cliff riding an altar boy in the jacuzzi, I saw subdivisions being erected by slaves in loincloths. They hoisted the walls into position by long, heavy ropes. I saw a baby being shot out of a cannon into the middle of the ocean. I saw Kim in profile smoking a cigarette. She took a long pull and the cherry opened up into a flower that expanded backwards into large flames and reduced her face and the rest of California behind her to ash. My mother rose from her coffin and danced a half skeletal dance. Then the dream darkened, a sheet was pulled over my head and there was nothing, not even a graveyard.

I woke up dry as a bone. The house was dark. I had shit and pissed my pants. I made it to the bathroom and washed, scrubbed my only clothes clean and tossed them outside to dry. I had never been so sick in my whole life. My ribcage was painted up and down with bruises from being thrown against the bars. Every moving part of me was stiff. I crawled back under the blanket and fell asleep in shame, hoping that whoever covered me while I was sleeping did so before I lost control of my functions. I slept hard, and woke up older.

I could hear the television. I felt my nieces standing over me. They were talking about me. I reached out from under the blanket and grabbed a leg. They screamed and laughed. I pulled her down on top of me. It hurt. She was bigger. She got away. They ran down the hall then back to the couch. I asked the youngest if she would be a sweetheart and go get my clothes from out back. She brought them in. They were stiff from the sun. I pulled the blanket from my face and dressed underneath. I laid back and asked them where my nephew was. “At his little girlfriend’s.”

I thought about how long I’d been gone. Janie was the oldest. She smiled, “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“I have a boyfriend.”

They yelled and ran back to the room. “Mom! Mom! Uncle Jeff has a BOYFRIEND!” I sat up slowly. My nieces sat around me on the couch.

“What happened to your face?” Lily asked.

“Nothing. What are you talking about?”

She looked at Janie. “He’s lying.”

I sat forward and rested my head into my palms. They watched me. “You tired?”

“Nope.”

Janie shook my leg. “You’ve been sleeping for 2 days.”

“What’s today?”

“Saturday.

-excerpt from Breath Upon A Burn. I read some of this for the audiobook version, coming soon. Here's the link, if you want to hear it.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x9LIkiNobH4

Beautiful Beasts of Brains, Beauty, and Boulevards of Bards:

Hope your weekend was good. Ours was spent reading over some of the talent lacing up their gloves, or rather, watching the doorman read their IDs while glancing over his shoulder for a glimpse of the writers at the bar in The Emerald Lounge, sizing them up, but mostly knowing when they're in, they're among their own. Here's a look into that Challenge. The last of the three is at the bar already, looking into the mirror behind the bottles, to get a grasp on the room.

Here's the link.

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

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

There is a sacred place between reality and imagination - pure experience.

Experiences that touch your soul.

A place where your mind is free to think and your heart is free to feel.

A place where both everything and nothing are real.

A realm where dreams blend with being awake,

Where mind and heart become one.

In this sanctuary, boundaries melt away,

Time stands still,

Night merges with day.

Here, memories dance with visions unforetold,

And everything’s made of glitter and gold.

Echoes of laughter, whispers of the time.

But you haven’t experienced nothingness yet.

Where passion meets purpose, without any fear,

Where you can’t tell time or distance.

Far or near.

Between the tangible and the imaginary realm,

A bridge to the infinite, lies under ever-changing skies.

Enter my magical world.

I drew my last breath with her in my life as she drew away from my arms for the last time. The sun was rising when she said goodbye. She'd never looked more beautiful in the dawn's dewey stand. She told me she couldn't wait for me anymore. I wished it wasn't true.

"I need you to be there for me, but you're not willing to show up. It's been over a year. I can't wait for you to love me. I've given you all the time I can give. It's too hard. I can't do it anymore."

I tried to keep my welling eyes from overflowing. If only I'd tried this hard to keep her. I waited until that last moment to offer the commitment she'd been needing.

"I care about you so much. I don't want to lose you. I don't want to lose your friendship." It was a lame effort, and it came way too late.

"That's the problem. You don't want to lose my friendship, but I don't want to be friends with you. I want to be everything to you. I'm willing to lose you completely if I can't have it all."

Her tone was soft, kind, and rhythmic, but her words were cement. Listening to the sweet cadence of her voice was heartbreaking. The moment slid over me in slow motion. It still plays on repeat in my memories.

"Can't we still be friends? We can talk occasionally and hang out sometimes, right?" Warm tears left my lashes as I asked for her grace. She'd never seen me cry, and I hadn't felt that helpless in my life. I couldn't remember the last time I'd cried before that morning.

"No. We can't be friends anymore. I'm sorry. I don't want you to call me. I don't want to see you. I just can't do it. I'm sorry." She didn't waver, but she fought welling tears too. "I love you. I wish you loved me too. I know you do, but not the same way I love you."

The rising sun danced in her chocolate brown eyes. I never noticed how deep green forest colors blended into mahogany and espresso until she was breaking my heart. The dawn tortured me with refracting amber and copper iridescence as the sun rose behind me. Her eyes said things I wish she'd say out loud, but I didn't deserve to know those things. All I knew was she'd never be mine again. I tried to keep her one more time.

"I do love you. I don't us to end like this. I can't lose you."

"I know. I love you too. I'm sorry. I'm scared we're making a mistake, that we're messing this up, but I have to go. I'm sorry."

She kissed me for the last time, and I knew we didn't make a mistake. I made the mistake. I messed it up.

I drew my last breath her with her still lingering on my lips. She turned around, and she was gone forever.

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.

Every Friday, a family meet up. We eat dinner, laugh together as one. Talk over problems and solutions. Grape juice sticks to my lip, creating a mustache that I don't like to swipe away cause it reminds me the Friday nights.

Running off the bus with fleeting feet as I crash through the house to what leis inside. My mom. Smelling of raw bread and whatever homemade delectable this time. I ask the same question every week. Mommy knows when I ask it.

" Can I help this week?" I ask hopeful. I already know the answer though. I can whip up feosting for the cake or cinnamon rolls. I can help shape the bread, or maybe take care of the cheese.

Sometimes I can set the table. With the scarlet worn tablecloth that we refuse to replace, candle holders that add to the sensation. Whine glasses that will be filled with juice. The fancy napkins and silverware along with the glass plates that we can only use tonight.

Can I help this week. Many chores need done. The animals and house along with the yard and room. Mommy says yes, and when daddy arrives in time to shower all the cat oil off of himself. I tell daddy all about it eagerly. Can I help this week and every week until you have more weeks to spend. Or words or breathes. So, can * help this week?

Most say mom and dad, but who are they really. Sometimes they aren't the ones that stick, sometimes they're the ones who don't fix your wounds but make them. They don't fix you, but brake you. Until you find the right ones, the ones that will stick. That try to fix what they broke, to heal what they wounded. That was the car that drove me home.

Imagine having cancer,

and someone gave you a pill

and it looked really hard to swallow

but you trusted the person

so you took it and you were cured

and He gave you a bunch more pills

and every time you see someone dying

you tried to give them one,

but they accused you of shoving it down their throat

and walked away from you with a deeper willingness

to just die