Humanity
A Letter to Myself From Craig City Jail
The Derby Man, fruit stickers on the inside of the bars, The comraderie of the regulars, “kidnapped for a month in Seattle,” Walking around in public with an orange jumpsuit, texting and driving chief of police, Hungry Man, Comfy shitters but don’t flush well, Being given a copy of my “rights” as a mentally ill, The shaking hands of my counselor telling me I will be in jail another night, begging to help me in some way but receiving only my cold indifference and my back as I return to my cell. The telephone stretched taut to barely reach the edge of my cell. Holding the receiver between the bars to tell my wife what to bring to jail. “How long will you be there? Are you scared?” “Naw babe they are real nice, another inmate sent the books he liked to my cell.” AM and PM are useless constructs, what is more important is to figure out how to sleep on a 30" wide mat and not develop sores. Rotate like a properly heated Hot Pocket. Read an entire book in 18 hours. The language of my jail mates makes me rethink foul language except for special occasions. I thought the jailhouse grey paint replaced a previous red but that’s just the rust from the incessant rubbing of a jailbirds leg in his sleep and the scraping of TV Dinner trays through the slot. Where’s my fucking ball and glove like solitary in The Great Escape!? The next celly is a female but she isn’t supposed to ask where her mate is. She asks another “Dispatch” about her girlfriend and gets an earful from the other lady that told her to keep quiet about it. She comes soon enough. They are both young, cute, don’t really look like great dangers to society, but from their conversations the are veterans of misdemeanor though I doubt either are yet 21. “…tampering w/ evidence…” “We’ll leave your UA in the freezer for your parole officer.” My first day the first man gets out. It’s interesting to know the voice before the man. He is a grey-haired black man and small. He croaks when he talks and I want to name him Frog but they call him Frank and he is well-
By Jay Robbins5 years ago in Confessions
Lakshmi's Love Shack
My ex-husband kept referring to him as a gardener during the divorce. I’ll have you know, he was so much more. A Landscape Visioneer he was, and he certainly changed mine! Lakshmi-Love, wherever you are now, I will always thank you for opening my eyes and hope you'll forgive me for finally sharing our story.
By Alexis Behrend5 years ago in Confessions
The First Grease and Oil Change
‘Seek ye the emotional penis. And KICK.’ My best mate, Jono, says. The curse of the writer is that we must be willing to kick ourselves in the dick by reliving some of the most embarrassing moments in our life for the sake of the story. The thought of recounting any embarrassing moment of mine makes my head hurt. Because naturally, one cannot help but think of all of them, and when I say all of them, what I mean is I have compilations that my mind releases annually of all the stupid things I have done (like a So-Fresh CD) and not once have I been able to avoid it. I thought my bout of embarrassment was a phase, like when I dressed all-black for the entirety of 2007 because The Veronicas were the shit setting a very fashionable trend with pink and black, and I genuinely believed that Antique was pronounced as anti-q. Not to mention all of the public places I have trusted a fart, or that time when my crop top slid up, and everyone at soccer training saw my boobs.
By Yasmine Barrett 5 years ago in Confessions
Always hit the X
O’ Intrepid reader, let me tell you of a tale so jarring and so scarring that almost 10years from the incident and yet it still invokes a deep sense of dread and anxiousness in the bottom of my stomach every time I’m asked to hand my phone over to anyone.
By Gilgamesh5 years ago in Confessions
War of Hearts
123rd Ave, Parkland County I let my breaths run loose through the thickening winded airs of Maryland as I slammed my body against the shielded realm. It was protected. Of course, this was the Azerial Hawke realm; he was the last man to survive what some like to call “The Women War.” I just call it a victory. We hadn’t had any commotion between ourselves since the war ended; everything was calm and still. But everything that dies comes with sacrifice; I knew this. I knew this first hand. I dared myself to face the war as a single soldier during operations; I practically used myself as bait. It worked until it didn’t. Until my blood was tingling with a different kind of sensation, one that had felt like boils of thick ooze and misty fog beneath my darkened skin. My blood was cursed with power, a power that let me rip through flesh with the anger beneath my stare. I never used it, and I never plan on using it in the future. Never. Well, not until now.
By Aida Fakhry5 years ago in Confessions
Evil Twin From College
Sociology makes you seriously reflect upon serious situations- any situation, really- and ask what the purpose is for it. For example, a point of thought might be thinking about those you supposedly “hate” and ask yourself (sociologically speaking) why do you hate them? Is it just because society told you to? Why do you try so much to convince yourself you hate someone? Is it because other people hate them too and you get caught up in the vicious hate cycle?
By Jazz Toppin5 years ago in Confessions
I walked away
What is regret? It's a word we hear often. To regret is to feel sad, repentant, or disappointed over something that has happened or been done, especially over a loss or a missed opportunity. To feel regret carries a negative connotation. Society praises those who have no regrets while it almost condemns people who have them.
By Wendy Sanders5 years ago in Confessions
There is a list.
There’s a list. On a crinkled white page, set on a clip board on the old dresser in the kitchen. My list. One of them. My life is set against lists now. Lists of friends on online groups cheering me on. Lists of food I can have and one’s I can’t. Lists of phone calls, appointments, schedules in diaries, pockets, purses. Sometimes I wake at night and wonder if I’ve forgotten to add the right thing to one of them. Have I forgotten a list, somewhere? Does it need my tending? The kind of tending my old life used to have but now is buried under the changes, under the pages.
By Lys Lily Wild5 years ago in Confessions
