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INMATE WRITING STORIES: THE GRAND PRIZE WINNER! SWEPT AWAY, by CHRIS MOORE

9/14/2016

2 Comments

 
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    Hello everyone.
   Below you can read the story that was grand prize winner in my inmate writing contest. The students and I had so much fun doing it - and there were so many positive responses from readers - I think I'm going to make it an annual event. 
    Swept Away, by Chris Moore is unique among the entries as it was truly a short story created out of thin air. There are some prison elements to it, but it is mostly a fiction tale set in a fictional prison.
    For his accomplishment as the number one story, Mr. Moore will have a character named after him in my next One Eyed Jack book, Blue Chip.
    But enough about that, sit back and enjoy Swept Away by Chris Moore!


​“Let the sea roar, and the fulness thereof; the world, and they that dwell therein.” PSALM 98:7

                                              SWEPT AWAY
                                                       By
                                                Chris Moore


3:37 P.M. – San Francisco, California
    It struck with ample warning. The colossal wave of seawater surged through the meandering, rush-hour streets of downtown San Francisco, lugging cars and trolleys through the city like children’s toys.
    Mother Nature was reclaiming the coastal metropolis for herself, clawing at the compact city with giant, avenging hands that raked parts of San Francisco into the sea and, with malicious cruelty, reached back into the town for more. 
   Wave after enormous wave blitzed the hapless coast as far inland as two miles, and the receding seawater, as tall as two-storied houses, foamed and fizzled like gallons of spilled soda—dragging people, pets and debris out into the open sea. Others clinged to anything they could to keep from being swept away. 

EARLIER THAT DAY – THE ALASKAN COAST
    The Alaskan air was crisp; the sky, cloudless and the sun shone with noon-like radiance. The sea’s swells licked and lapped the coastal shores like playful puppies while sullied gulls squawked and glided in tight, hungry circles above the frigid waters.
    The coast was more cliff than beach; more snow than sand, and the awaiting sunset—the Northern Lights—would eventually cast the entire Alaskan sky in swirling rainbows that danced like sweltering flames.

                                                   ***

    Three miles beneath the surface calm, in the black, abysmal depths along the Continental Shelf, the earth ripped and then shook—sloshing enough seawater to fill the Great Lakes, twice and sending it surging through the Pacific Ocean like a trampling herd of Bison. 

                                                  ***

9:03 A.M. – 2000 MILES AWAY, NEW ALCATRAZ STATE PRISON, SAN FRANCISCO BAY    
   On a small, rocky island off the coast of San Francisco, a speckled seagull nipped greedily at a half-eaten halibut outside a razor-wired fence surrounding California’s newest prison for women. 
    Alcatraz, the infamous penitentiary that once housed notorious prisoners like Al Capone and Machine Gun Kelly, was a ghost of its former self. The State had purchased the landmark site, demolished the old federal prison known as “The Rock” and had built a state-of-the-art prison complex where the old one once stood, renaming it New Alcatraz. It was heralded, like Alcatraz, to be escape-proof and was designed to incarcerate forever the State’s most dangerous women. 
    “The Iron Rock” was its new moniker and from the air, it looked like a steel landing platform with five Millennium Falcons parked evenly in a half circle that, by design, formed a dirt courtyard where inmates could exercise. At times of unrest, prison guards—dressed like green storm troopers—marched in ominous formation while inmates—rebels in blue jumpsuits—desperately ran for cover.
    At times of peace, on mornings of thick, coastal fog, New Alcatraz looked like an abandoned space settlement drifting on an asteroid through clouds of nebula in a sea of deep blue space.

                                                     ***

    Inside, ten inmates and four staff members gathered in a small classroom in the prison’s administration building. 
    “I can’t do it anymore,” cried Whining Wanda, an aging convict who was battling breast cancer and was serving her thirty-fifth year in prison for killing her abusive husband.
     “I’m sick of doing time. I’m sick of being sick,” she rambled on. “I can’t do this anymore—I just can’t. I wish I—,” a small voice quickly interjected from across the room.
     “Don’t say it,” the voice pleaded. “Please, don’t say it.”
Whining Wanda nodded quietly, rocking back and forth in a metal folding chair that faced the group—her knees together, her hands trembling.
    “Why,” Judgmental Judy, the group’s critic demanded. Severe fault-finding, a symptom of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, was what led Judgmental Judy to kill a woman in a bar fight several years ago. Even in her late sixties, she was strong and had a penchant for fighting, a trait she inherited from the time she served honorably in a M.A.S.H. unit during the Vietnam War.  Now, in a twist of fate, she found herself battling a cancer that was as pugnacious and judgmental as she was.
    “Why what,” retorted Freedom Florence, her tone challenging, tension building between the two. Freedom Florence was the consummate protector of the group and was quick to run to the aid of the weak. No one knew what terrible deed she had committed to end up in prison, but it didn’t matter. She had earned the respect and admiration of those around her, except for a few.
   “Why shouldn’t she say it,” replied Judgmental Judy, clearly annoyed. “Why should she keep it all bottled up inside of her. It’s how most of us feel anyway, so why shouldn’t she say it?”
     Joyful Jenny, the one who had asked Whining Wanda not to say it, looked over at Freedom Florence with wide, curious, expecting eyes. At four-feet-six, Joyful Jenny was the smallest of the group members and was just ten years old. She was one of three special child visitors in the group: Jealous Jessie, her slightly taller twin and Brave Brittany, her best friend in the whole wide world. All of them were fighting deadly cancers and all of them were losing the battle, their petite bald heads evidence of failed radiation treatments and chemo therapies.
   Their visits were part of a year-long pilot program dubbed, “Women For Honor” that sought to bring sick children together with sick prisoners with the far away hope of unearthing the precious oil of inner healing.
    It took the Cancer Institute and prison administrators seven years to start the program, and after only one year of weekly meetings, the program was now in jeopardy. The shifting political climate on crime gave prison management the excuse they needed to shut it all down: the group’s progress was inconclusive and fell suspiciously short of the expectations set by prison officials, not to mention the safety of the children. Still, like devoted protesters of the Civil Rights movement, the group met every single week. 
   “Because they’re children. That’s why,” Freedom Florence answered emphatically, looking at the three girls sitting together. Her gaze softened, lingering on Joyful Jenny for just a moment longer than the others. Perhaps it was because Joyful Jenny was so little and wearing mechanical leg braces that made her seem more vulnerable than the other two, or maybe it was that she reminded her so much of her own daughter—a daughter from whom she had been exiled for the past twenty years. 
    Freedom Florence turned away, emotions creeping in. Children, she thought, innocent children who had been unfairly afflicted with the world’s most deadly disease and for what? To what end? She would gladly sacrifice herself and bear all of their illnesses, giving them all a chance to live long, healthy, happy lives. After all, she was guilty—her life marred forever by a single, horrible act. Then, that voice, that small voice caught her attention, bringing her out of her self-reproaching inner soliloquy.
     “We shouldn’t—” Joyful Jenny began, speaking so softly that she had to clear her throat and start again.“We shouldn’t say it because it’s not true.”
    “Why don’t you think it’s true, Jenny.” This time it was the prison’s psychiatrist, Dr. Ann. The group insisted on calling the doctor by her adjective name, Analytical Ann, but she refused to be addressed that way. “It’s inappropriate,” she would say.
    Everybody in the group was required to have an adjective name—an alliterative name that combines an adjective that describes a personality trait with a first name.
    “What do you mean it’s not true, Jenny,” the doctor repeated.
   Joyful Jenny looked at Whining Wanda with round, discerning eyes.
    “It’s not true because she wants to live.”
Whining Wanda nodded greedily, feasting on Joyful Jenny’s truth like a famished nomad.
    “She wants,” Joyful Jenny continued, “what we all so desperately want: Hope. The doctors tell me that I won’t be here come Christmas.” Joyful Jenny turned and looked solemnly at Healing Harriet, the oncologist from the institute who sat there with tears welling in her eyes.
    “They tell me that my courage is greater than my strength. But I would rather them tell me that I am as strong as I am courageous because through the strength of hope and love, I know we can all be healed.”
    Joyful Jenny redirected her gaze at Whining Wanda, her eyes deep and compassionate.
    “You are immeasurable love, Wanda. Please don’t let life’s short-lived miseries take that gift away from you.”
    Gloomy Gloria, a young, reticent prisoner who resembled a chubby Lucille Ball, covered her mouth and wiped her eyes, hiding tears and her astonishment at Joyful Jenny’s insightful and compassionate answer.
     Gloomy Gloria was a victim of pancreatic cancer. She was also a murderer by accomplice. During a home-invasion robbery, her partner in crime, senselessly murdered one of the occupants—the husband, and although she hadn’t killed anyone, the State saw to it that she shared equally in the guilt and in a lifetime of punishment. 
Gloomy Gloria was a manic and a depressant whose life was a dichotomy of two stories. Her right arm, decorated with artful tattoos, heralded her as a fighter, but her left arm, riddled with grizzly scars, accused her of being a quitter.
    “I love your answer, Jenny,” chimed Helpful Hanna, one of the two counselors from the institute who was also a successful writer that had published a best-selling novel entitled, One-Eyed Jackie, “but what about when bad things happen to you and you feel sad like Whining Wanda?”
    Joyful Jenny’s expression changed. Her eyes grew sad, her lips pursed in a way that only a child could purse them and her rosy cheeks grew rosier.
   “To me, sickness and the awful things that happen are not lifelong condemnations but are dreams that remind me that life is about healing and forgiveness. It makes me want to embrace life, not to let go of it.”
   The group was pin-drop silent. It was an incredibly simple answer, uncomplicated by the hamartia of grown-up reasoning.

                                                    ***
​
9:47 A.M. – D-BLOCK, NEW ALCATRAZ PRISON
    In the main living quarters of the prison, inmates milled about. Some playing cards, others just standing around, all of them wearing blue jumpsuits with the words, “CDCR PRISONER” stenciled on the back of their uniforms in large, yellow lettering.
    This group of prisoners lived in one of the five buildings that looked like a Millennium Falcon—a two-story concrete structure that curved in a half circle at the back and tapered to a V-shape point at the front. Small, two-person cells lined the rear, rounded portion of the unit and extended two hundred seventy degrees toward the guard’s station at the front, giving the sentries a clear, unobstructed view of all fifty cells. 
     A second story, inner-observation tower was built into the front of the building and was posted by an armed guard who could shoot any target inside or outside of the unit. The cavernous space inside the building was referred to as the “dayroom” and was where inmates regularly assembled for recreational activities.
     A group of inmates had gathered to watch a recorded episode of Orange is the New Black on a wall–mounted television in the dayroom. They laughed and made crude comments. Ten minutes into the show, a breaking news banner flashed across the screen. A news anchor urgently reported the breaking headline. 
   “A nine-point-six earthquake was registered off the coast of Alaska. The epicenter was thousands of feet beneath the ocean. Tsunami warnings have been issued for Pacific coastal areas and are to remain in effect for the next twenty-four hours. We’ll have more on this late-breaking event.”
    Dozens more curious inmates gathered to watch. A young, tattooed gang member with braids called Scrappy asked, “Hey, are we part of the coastal areas?”
    Several prisoners turned with scowls on their faces that read, “What are you, stupid? Yeah, we’re part of the coastal areas. Duh!” Yet, for all of their collective brilliance, not one of them realized the horrible catastrophe that was heading their way. 
    The television suddenly went black and a collective “aw” rose from the group of inmates. An awkward silence followed. Static crackled over the Public Address system and a guard’s voice commanded all the inmates to return to their cells.
     The inmates were complying with the command until a terrifying realization crashed into Scrappy like a massive wave. “Hey,” Scrappy shouted, “the tidal wave is coming this way!”
    Tidal wave was a misnomer. Most people imagine a tidal wave as a towering wave that sweeps inland and causes a great loss of life. In truth, tidal waves are often small, harmless waves that fluctuate with tidal conditions, hence the name tidal wave.
    Tsunami, Japanese for “harbor wave,” on the other hand, is a giant wave spawned by an undersea earthquake or other event. In the open ocean it may take the form of successive waves, traveling up to five hundred miles per hour and at a deceptive height of only three feet. As it approaches the coastal shallows, tsunamis slow down and grow to enormous heights and become the gargantuous wall of water depicted in Hollywood movies.
    Mental lightbulbs, one by one, began flickering on in the rest of the prisoners. Someone yelled, “They’re gonna lock us all up and leave us here to die!”
    More commands were given for the inmates to lock up. More inmates joined the uproar. Then, all hell broke loose.

                                                       ***

10:13 A.M. – ADMINISTRATION BUILDING
    Freedom Florence broke the silence. “I had a dream last night.”
    “What kind of dream,” Whining Wanda asked.
    “I was falling, but I wasn’t afraid. Someone was holding my hand on the way down. It seemed like I was falling forever, then I landed softly on a blue cloud.”
    She looked around to see the group’s reaction, but there was none.
    She went on. “I don’t know what it all means, but in my dream, I felt truly free for the first time in my life. I mean really free.”
     Judgmental Judy rolled her eyes.
  “Love is knocking on your door,” Joyful Jenny responded. “Answer it and you will find the love that cast out fear and it will set you on a soft eternal cloud of freedom and truth.”
  Judgmental Judy had endured enough. “Stop it with the philosophical BS. The truth is that we’re all locked-up doing life, we’re all sick and we’re all going to die in this miserable rat hole. And don’t think for a minute—”
     The prison’s alarm started blaring. Something was wrong.
     The doctor and both counselors stood up, checking outside the room for signs of a disturbance.
  Fearful Frances began fidgeting in her chair, her hands sweating. 
     “Does anyone have an Oreo cookie,” she asked weakly.
    The group shook their heads, unaffected by her unusual request. They understood her peculiar reaction. Whenever Fearful Frances became scared, she would always ask for the same thing: an Oreo cookie. Occasionally, she would get one but most of the time she was forced to deal with her fear without one. Either way, it was just Fearful Frances’ strange, almost humorous, way of coping with her own trepidation.
   An ear-piercing scream came from down the hallway, just outside the room. Everyone jumped.
Freedom Florence scurried over to Joyful Jenny and knelt beside her. 
    The doctor locked the door and returned to the group.
   “Look, something’s going on,” Dr. Ann began. “We’re going to stay put until we know what’s going on or until we get instructions. Okay?”
     The group nodded.
Outside, the staccato sound of automatic gunfire could be heard and the building rattled under the deafening booms of flash grenades. The acrid smell of pepper spray began seeping into the room.
    Several group members began to cough, their eyes watering under the stingy effects of loose mace.
    A cacophony of sounds was taking place in the hallway just outside the room. Screams and shouts, commands and orders, and none of it made any sense. Then, the dreadful sound of multiple struggles—grunts and shrieks—and soon after, gunfire.
Brave Brittany and Fearful Frances began sobbing hysterically.     Others strained to contain their fright.
      Dr. Ann got on her cell phone. She spoke and hung up.
Freedom Florence gathered the children into her arms to form a tight circle.
    The door shook, its knob rattled and a fist pounded desperately for entry. 
    There were more shouts, more struggles and more gunfire. The door stopped clattering and an eerie silence followed. 
   Everyone in the room was afraid to move. Freedom Florence quietly ushered the children into the safest corner of the room, away from any sudden breach of the door. The rest of the group followed.
   The room that held them was windowless, a concrete bunker buried deep inside the prison’s command center where, like a bomb shelter, they could hear the muffled explosions of warfare. 
    They sat on the floor in a semicircle looking like a battered group of survivors from a plane crash and for the first thirty minutes no one said a word. They just listened to the carnage taking place outside the walls.
    The group began to make small talk. Their talk evolved into laughter and their laughter turned into sadness. Soon their sadness became resentment; their resentment turned into anger and anger turned into shouting and fighting. Like a vicious cycle, crying and forgiveness came last and then it started all over again. All of it was an attempt to distract themselves from the insanity waiting just beyond the walls. But the war on the other side would not be ignored. 
     The sound of exploding grenades and screams jolted the group back into silence.
   It was difficult to imagine that guards had lost control of the prison, but the screech of rubber soles against a polished floor—the sound of a lone inmate skipping down the ruinous hallway, shouting the lyrics of songs from the sixties and rapping the walls with a guard’s baton—was sufficient proof that the unthinkable had happened.
     It was five long, tortuous hours before Dr. Ann’s cell phone rang. She listened, nodded and hung up.
     Dr. Ann turned and looked anxiously at the door. Six times had someone tried desperately to enter. The last time was over an hour ago.
      Dr. Ann turned to the group, their eyes pleading for an answer.
    “There’s a tsunami headed toward the west coast,” she began. “Evacuations have been ordered for all coastal cities but widespread panic has made it almost impossible. The inmates at the prison have risen up—”
     “Damn right!” Judgmental Judy interjected.
    “We have to make our way to the roof where we’ll be safe and can wait for help,” Dr. Ann finished.
   “There’s a stairwell just down the hall that accesses the roof,” spouted Silly Sandra. They all agreed to stay together and made their way to the door. 
   They huddled together, crouching through the smoky corridor where bodies of inmates and guards littered the floor. Shrieking alarms blared incessantly and rapid fire gunshots could be heard in the distance. Somewhere, a roar of inmates erupted with more crackle of gunfire. 
     They reached the stairwell to the roof.
Joyful Jenny wrapped her arms around Freedom Florence’s neck, her crippled legs dangling like loose shoestrings over Freedom Florence’s straining arms.
    Three flights of stairs was all that stood between them and the roof where they would be safe from the violence and they would wait for help. Joyful Jenny wheezed and coughed erratically and Freedom Florence quickly covered her mouth with a T-shirt.
     “Hang in there, baby,” Freedom Florence urged.
They had reached the roof and a helicopter could be heard whirring in the distance. They stood on the rooftop, wildly waving their arms in the air.
    The aircraft was a police helicopter and several, heavily-armed SWAT officers were perched, like hawks, on both sides of the chopper.
    As they made their approach, the officers pointed at the children and waved everyone else away. Freedom Florence gently laid Joyful Jenny on the ground and stepped away.
     “Don’t leave me, Florence,” Joyful Jenny begged.
    “I have to go, baby, but I’ll see you again. I promise.”
    “Promise,” Joyful Jenny asked.
   Freedom Florence nodded with tears in her eyes, her clothes flailing in the chopper’s draft.
   The helicopter landed and the SWAT team dismounted, rifles pointed. They grabbed the children and ushered the counselors and doctors onto the waiting chopper. Freedom Florence took a step forward. An officer pointed his weapon at her head.
     “Get down! Get down, now!”
   Freedom Florence and the rest of the inmates got on their knees, hand behind their heads.
    The SWAT team quickly retreated to the helicopter, guns still pointed. The lifting chopper rose haphazardly into the air and then banked up and away.
   Joyful Jenny looked down at the roof. She could see the approaching wave in the distance stalking the prison like a giant crocodile. She let out a bloodcurdling scream that went unheard, drowned out by the popping rotor blades.
   Joyful Jenny watched in horror as the massive wave hit the prison with a roar. Freedom Florence was still on the rooftop, kneeling with outstretched arms when the wave swallowed her pleading body and the entire prison in one enormous bite.
     Everything had been swept away.

                                                  ***

ONE YEAR LATER – SOMEWHERE IN THE PACIFIC
    The sun hung in a velvety, azure sky like a glittering diamond, beaming warm sunrays on a tiny island that was rich in lush, mountainous foliage. Brisk gales wafted the salty scent of ocean through the island’s thick, green flora while streams of fresh water coalesced at a cliff’s edge and spilled over the side into a blue lagoon thirty feet below.
    A couple stood at the cliff’s edge, their hands linked together like connecting cables and their eyes lost in each other’s dreamy gaze.
   “I now pronounce you united in Holy matrimony,” a voice said solemnly.
   Tears flowed down Freedom Florence’s face, her gown fluttering in the wind. 
    She looked from her soulmate to the two people standing next to her and stifled an urge to cry, letting out, instead, a tearful chuckle. Her daughter, Florina, smiled and reached out to her for a hug.
     Her dream had finally come true. 
Natives serenaded the couple’s union with hand drums that rapped a catchy, Caribbean tune.
    “Three,” a voice began counting down. 
   Freedom Florence looked at the bright, orange life vest strapped to her chest. She didn’t know how to swim, but that was okay. She had never felt safer in all her life.
    “Two.”
    The couple turned and faced one another, reuniting their dreamy gaze. The drumbeat gradually became louder, rising into a crescendo.
     “One.”
    Freedom Florence closed her eyes, whispered to herself and with her mate, leapt off the edge of the waterfall, descending toward the lagoon below. 
     Her whispers turned into talk as she fell over the side. She had been reciting the adjective names of the unforgettable friends that had, for so long, touched her life—a tribute to their lives, their struggles and their search for freedom.
    “Whining Wanda, Gloomy Gloria, Silly Sandra, Loveable Linda, Insightful Isabel, Helpful Hanna, Analytical Ann, Fearful Frances, Angry Alexis, Dramatic Dorothy, Brave Brittany, Jealous Jessie…”
     She opened her eyes, still falling; the thoughts about the loss of her friends falling with her and whispered the last of the endearing names: Joyful Jenny, who was standing over the edge of the cliff with Florina, watching her descend and splash into the water below.

                                                       ***

“The LORD on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty wave of the sea.” PSALM 93:4

EPILOGUE
    SWEPT AWAY is a fictional story that is based on the amazing things that I have seen and heard in the creative writer’s workshop hosted by Christopher Lynch. It was a privilege to build a moving and dramatic story that conveyed a message of hope, but also incorporated elements of personal experiences from the classmates themselves.
   SWEPT AWAY is both a literal and an allegorical story. In a literal sense, it is a story about a group of women and children who struggle with illness and incarceration in a prison setting, when suddenly, their lives are threatened by a catastrophic tsunami that strikes the prison. It ends with two of the characters being reunited on a tropical island and living out their dreams. 
    Allegorically, it is a story that symbolizes the deeper truths of the criminal justice system and the inextinguishable human drive to persevere and discover hope.
    New Alcatraz represents, not just a single prison, but an entire criminal justice system built on a rock of old, draconian precepts that seeks to incarcerate people far more than it seeks to free them, and treats the incarcerated with cruel indifference—expendable objects—rather than irreplaceable human beings with limitless potential.
    The group represents prisoners everywhere who struggle to find change and also the many facets of the human condition. Cancer is the incurable and fatal stigma placed on those who are incarcerated and upon those who attempt to help them. 
    The children symbolize the deep, nagging, insightful truths of our inner child. It is that part of us where forgiveness, love and compassion lie locked away in a cage of tragic experiences and can only be unlocked by the key of recognizing our own childhood innocence.
    The tsunami represents ‘change’ and how it rumbles in the deep recesses of our being, rippling through us and sweeping us away into a new life—a life with new meaning and a new way of thinking. Like tsunamis, ‘change’ comes in waves, washing away old habits that we often fight to hold on to. It is something we see coming from afar, but there is little we can do to avoid it until it is right upon us and crashing into us with life’s transformative power. Nothing is ever the same after a tsunami.
    The tropical ending symbolizes…FREEDOM.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR
    Chris Moore, whose own adjective name is Caring Chris, is an aspiring writer and a strong advocate of criminal justice reform. Chris is serving his tenth year of a Life sentence under the Three Strikes Law and in the last several years, he has discovered the transformative and healing power of creative writing.
​    His stories are often set inside a prison and are meant to enrich the lives of its readers with engaging plots, dynamic characters, profound dialogue and deep, provocative themes. Chris has helped instruct a creative writing class in prison and in his spare time, he is a barber, an athlete, a chess player and a friend who helps others rediscover their own capacity for compassion and hope.

Chris is currently incarcerated in the California State Prison at Post Office Box 4430 in Lancaster, California 93539. His prison ID number is AK6450.





2 Comments

INMATE STORIES: RULE 10 by DAMON R. MATTHEWS

9/7/2016

5 Comments

 
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                                             RULE 10
                                                  By
                                      Damon R. Matthews

    It was 2 a.m. when they pulled into the maximum security prison. With shackles clamped painfully around his wrists and ankles, Brian Kilgor peered aimlessly from the windows of the stuffy bus, eager to get a cell and a mattress after a miserable eight-hour ride. The cold, dark California desert matched the mood of the human cargo. Serving year twelve of a sixteen-year sentence for armed robbery, Brian prepared himself for the drama and hate that followed him from prison to prison like a sadistic shadow. 
    Before his arrest, Brian was a rebellious eighteen-year-old gang member who enjoyed being one of the guys in his sunny, crime-riddled San Diego neighborhood. However, after his arrest he experienced a different dynamic amongst his rowdy homeboys. In jail, he learned that there was less of a laid back camaraderie and more of a structured pecking order with consequences for rule breakers. 
    This really rubbed Brian the wrong way. He didn’t appreciate having to answer to a fellow gang member just because he was new to the jail system. He decided to do everything in his power to make a name for himself so he could be the one giving orders, not taking them. Being one of the guys was no longer enough. 
    Brian was convicted and shipped off to prison one year after his arrest. He knew ascending to the top of the gang food chain required violence. Brian had that covered thanks in large part to a physically and sexually abusive father. However, the proper timing of his violent outburst is what set him apart. Attacking a guard in full view of influential gang bangers or inciting racial riots, “just because,” were a couple of tactics Brian employed. He even extorted weaker crews, taking their drugs under the pretext that he would pay for it, only to stiff them and distribute the dope to his own homeboys. These calculated and often impulsive acts made his name known on general population yards throughout the State. He became respected and admired by his clique, and feared and despised by rivals. Eight years into his sentence Brian had achieved Alpha Dog status.
    That was then. Today, Brian’s rock star treatment is all but gone. Now the thirty-year-old is considered a pariah. Previously his arrival to a new yard prompted generous care packages from his homeboys. Now he was lucky if he was afforded basic respect. Worst of all, he’s no longer worthy of the customary small handwritten note (often called a “kite”) listing all friends and foes on the yard. As perks go, that was Brian’s favorite. A man cannot become a top butcher without getting blood on his hands. Having that list kept him in the know as to who he may have to confront; so arriving at the prison in the dead of night, without that kite to look forward to left Brian in the dark, literally and figuratively. There were occasions when he didn’t have to confront anyone; potential targets would voluntarily go into protective custody (“PC”) to avoid his wrath. 
    ‘What a difference four years makes,’ Brian thought, as he and the rest of society’s rejects were herded off the bus like degenerate sheep. These days it’s him entertaining the idea of going PC. Barely paying attention to the guards’ profanity-laced orders to keep quiet and form a tight, straight line, Brian reminisced about the night when all of his prison troubles began. 

    Four Years Earlier….
    Relaxing in his cell watching television, Brian was enjoying a rarity in California’s notoriously overcrowded prisons—a night in general population without a cellmate (aka “cellie”). His previous cellie paroled two nights prior, and with the State’s prison population bursting at the seams, Brian was sure he’d get a new one the same night. Instead, the gods of solitude smiled down and allowed the ‘King’ to have his broom closet sized castle to himself for a second consecutive night. 
    Tipsy off of inmate made alcohol (“pruno”), and stoned thanks to a small amount of smuggled in weed, Brian was in the middle of flubbing yet another “Wheel of Fortune” puzzle when the steel cell door rumbled open.
    Brian quickly downed the bitter drink he was nursing—a precaution just in case a guard was approaching the cell. He got up to investigate. He wanted his gang tattoos on display just in case a new cellmate was coming, so he decided not to put on a shirt. He positioned his athletic six-foot-two frame at the threshold of the door to block the entrance, preparing to vet the potential new cellie. This posturing was done more out of obligation than defiance. Although gangs are similar in that they all have unwritten rules, in prison a lot of gangs—including Brian’s, have rules that are actually written. Often referred to as a “Constitution,” these rules are numerous and very strict.
    Along with the ubiquitous “No Snitching” (Rule 1) and “No backing down from a fight” (Rule 8), there is also a laundry list of do’s and don’ts regarding cell behavior. “Allowing someone mentally unstable to move into your cell” is also a no-no (Rule 12). These rules were established long before Brian came to prison. Now that he was a leader of his clique on that particular yard, not only did he have to follow them, he had to punish those who didn’t. The punishment could range from mandatory exercise to being stabbed.
    To those on the outside looking in, some of these rules may seem petty and odd, (Rule 15) “No hanging your feet from the top bunk while your cellie is on the lower bunk”—but in the volatile world of maximum security prison, these Constitutions are effective at keeping violence down.
    The last thing Brian wanted was a buzz-killing confrontation. He looked out of the cell hoping to see one of his homeboys. What he saw instead was a dude he didn’t know heading his way carrying a bed roll. Brian sized up the guy—slim, fit, maybe six feet tall and no visible tattoos. ‘I can take him,’ he thought to himself. Gangbangers put out a certain aggressive energy when meeting other gang members for the first time. Brian did not detect that energy in this guy. 
    With guards watching from their posts and inmates looking on from their cells, the unit fell silent with anticipation. Brian was fully prepared to put on yet another violent show if the situation called for it. The guy walked up to the shirtless gangbanger, smiled and extended his right hand for Brian to shake. Still blocking the entrance, Brian shook the guy’s hand and asked two of the most commonly-asked questions prisoners pose to one another upon meeting. The first being, “what do they call you?” Most convicts have monikers, and asking a guy “What’s your name?” comes off as narc-like. He told Brian that he went by the name “D2.” 
    Brian’s follow-up question was, “where are you from?” This seemingly innocent query is often considered challenging or threatening because if the person being asked answers by naming a rival neighborhood, he may have a fight on his hands…or worse. In the streets sometimes punches are thrown or bullets start flying if the guy even hesitates to answer. So the “Where are you from?” question automatically puts a guy on the defensive; gangbangers hate that. Brian knew this but he didn’t care. He was in full intimidation mode.
    D2 didn’t seem to notice. He told Brian he was from Fairfield, a small city in Northern California not known for crime. Brian found it weird that the guy was sporting a goofy smile. Chalking it up to nervousness, he allowed the man to move in with no objections, prompting the guards to relax, and the other inmates to go back to whatever they were doing in their cells; there would be no show tonight. 
    Once D2 unpacked and settled in, Brian courteously offered him some weed and pruno. D2 was more than willing to indulge. The two spent the next couple of hours getting loaded and talking about their backgrounds. Brian learned that D2 was four years older, loved reading and watching movies set in medieval times. Brian also learned that his new cellie never came across a drug he didn’t try at least twice.
    D2 had a naïve, child-like fascination with the gang lifestyle. This amused Brian. D2 reminded him of the nerdy character, ‘Carlton Banks,’ from the television sitcom, “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.” Brian found it refreshing to be in a cell with a square for a change. He didn’t have to be hyper vigilant, worrying about constitutional rules. D2 surprised Brian when he produced some much more potent weed for them to enjoy. For the first time in a long while Brian didn’t mind having a cellie.
    Days passed and Brian noticed something different about his new cellie. Brian was used to being around cutthroats and hardened criminals—D2 was the polar opposite. He was an average working class citizen in society who got caught up in California’s draconian Three Strikes Law. Done in by one too many drug convictions, D2 was a fish out of water doing 25 to Life instead of a much-needed rehab stint. But it was something about D2’s mannerisms and the way he spoke that struck Brian as…odd. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. 
    In prison, as one would imagine, there is plenty of idle time. Inmates spend a lot of that time reading. Whether fiction, non-fiction, law or religious text, prisoners read it all. However, no matter how many spiritual awakenings take place as a result of all of the voracious reading, at the end of the day, porn is still king. With no women around to scratch the itch, inmates clamor for nudie magazines.
    Brian was no different. He had a small stash of ‘smut’ that he thoroughly enjoyed—especially when he had no cellie. Brian was a star football player in high school, and this made him a bit of a ladies man. Although girls were all over him, Brian, like a lot of other teenagers, was heavy into pleasuring himself to girly mags. Of course, he hid this shameful habit, convinced that he was the only one doing it regularly. 
    Somewhere along the way there came a point when imagining naked women wasn’t enough. Taboo thoughts started to invade his fantasies—thoughts his peers wouldn’t accept or tolerate. This only added to his shame. Around that time in his life Brian became more short-tempered, rebellious and a little less comfortable in his own skin.
    One day after he and D2 finished off a joint, Brian prepared to head out to the prison exercise yard on a cold and rainy morning. Prison guards in the gun towers must have a clear line of sight to quell acts of violence with their Mini-14 rifles; so the yard offered no overhead protection from the rain. Brian was guaranteed to come back to the cell soaked.
    Bewildered, D2 asked, “Why are you going out there when it’s raining like that?” Brian told him that under his gang’s Constitution it was “Mandatory that all homeboys go to the yard, rain, sleet or snow” (Rule 4). He explained how even during a time of peace, a riot could happen over something as small as a misinterpreted look; so all available hands had to be on deck. On his way out the door, Brian gave his cellie permission to look at his porn collection while he was gone, a common courtesy convicts show each other when they get along. A couple of hours later Brian returned drenched from the rain. D2 made no mention of the porno magazines.
    Days later, on his way to a dental appointment at the prison infirmary D2 gave Brian a fat joint and gave him permission to look at his stack of smut as well. Feigning anger, Brian chided D2 for not offering him a look sooner. D2 laughed it off.
    “Your collection is so vanilla, I figured you wouldn’t know what to do with my stack,” D2 stated with a sly smile.
    The term “vanilla” went over Brian’s head but he was too self-conscious to ask D2 what he meant by it. After D2 headed out to see the dentist, Brian sparked up the joint and began eagerly flipping through the large stack of skin magazines. A few pages into the first magazine it began to dawn on Brian as to what D2 meant when he called his small collection of porn “vanilla.”
    Brian was accustomed to the standard ‘Penthouse’ fare, but what he was looking at now was…different. Better. Maybe the weed was making it more intense. Yes, there was the usual content Brian favored (i.e. naughty nurses, Far East geishas and black women with shapely derrieres), all of which are popular in prison. However, as he sat there gawking at large-breasted women engaging in various sex acts with men and women, Brian noticed something. Some of the women performing lewd, dirty acts weren’t women at all. They were dudes!
    “What the fuck?!” he muttered out loud. Shocked, yet transfixed, Brian continued to flip through page after page. He loved women—slept with plenty of them prior to his incarceration but Brian could not deny it, he found those triple X images hot. In fact, he couldn’t recall ever being that excited. Once again, just as it was when he was a teenager, Brian was alone—pleasuring himself. 
    Minutes after his marijuana enhanced climax, Brian’s euphoria was replaced by guilt and shame. He also felt conflicted. Brian knew he had to get a new cellie as soon as possible. D2 was a cool dude, and Brian really didn’t want to kick him out, but the Constitution clearly states; “no gay cellmates and absolutely no homosexual acts of any kind” (Rule 10). 
    Questions raced through his mind. ‘Do I really have to switch cellies?’ ‘No straight person would be into this kind of shit, right?’ ‘Then what the hell does that make me?’
    When D2 returned from the dentist that day, Brian was feeling unsettled and awkward. He could not stop thinking about those magazines. He wanted to grill D2 about the smut but he couldn’t do so with conviction after what he had just done.
    Brian felt bamboozled. Had D2 been a transsexual or someone noticeably gay, Brian would have invoked Rule 10 immediately, even if it meant being thrown in ‘the hole’ for refusing a cellmate. Even though Brian enforced his gang’s Constitution regularly, the truth is he resented Rule 10. He always did. He saw how other cliques went as far as allowing sexual contact, with the caveat being the act had to be deemed “manly.” They subscribed to the twisted prison logic that performing fellatio on someone makes you gay, but being on the receiving end does not. To them, penetrating a willing transsexual or raping a vulnerable inmate is manly and something to brag about without being labeled a queer, but if you voluntarily allow another man to penetrate you, you’re the “F” word.
    Brian was simply curious. He kept his taboo desires to himself for years, even while sleeping with all of the football groupies and bad boy chasing girls in high school. He didn’t feel like a chick trapped in a dude’s body or anything weird like that. Nor did he want a same sex relationship; the thought repulsed him. Although his urges were strictly physical, Brian never sought out or even met anyone who made him want to explore that side of his sexuality. He didn’t have a type. Oddly enough, that all changed when he got busted and saw something he had never seen before.
    It happened while sitting in a crowded musty holding tank in the San Diego County Jail. Brian looked across a hallway to an adjacent holding tank, also packed with inmates waiting to be cuffed and bussed to their court appearances. As he scanned the miserable faces, something caught his eye. In the midst of thugs, mentally deranged and unkempt drug addicts sat a beautiful Latina with fire engine red hair and perky breasts, dressed in jailhouse scrubs like the male inmates. 
    He wondered why she wasn’t in the holding tank down the hall with the female inmates. She smiled seductively when she noticed Brian staring. He waved and returned the smile, thinking to himself, ‘I still got it.’ Confused and a little concerned for the chick’s safety, Brian asked the guys next to him why the guards put that “bad bitch” in a holding tank with murderers and rapists. The tank erupted in laughter. The guys had to explain to the clueless         Brian that the “woman” he was making goo-goo eyes at was a “punk,” a term Cali prisoners use when referring to transsexuals. 
Brian was mocked mercilessly by the other inmates that day. And although he was embarrassed, he was also mesmerized. From that day forward he became obsessed with the idea of being with one of them. He now had a type. 
    In prison, transsexuals are regularly victimized by other inmates, so they are often placed in protective custody. However, there were occasions when Brian would see them on general population yards. They’d give themselves female names, soften their voices and walk around the yard wearing make-up and altered clothing in an effort to look like women. Brian found the spectacle of it all distracting. It was bad enough the prison had real females (nurses, counselors, C/O’s, etc.) walking around that he lusted after but couldn’t have. Now there he was doing the same thing with the transsexuals.
    This frustrated him to no end because he had to do so covertly. The last thing he needed was for his homeboys to notice him ogling punks. After all, he had a reputation to establish. So he kept a safe distance and merely watched as other hard up prisoners propositioned the punks by offering food, money and protection in exchange for agreeing to move in with them. 
    D2 was not transsexual, but Brian now found himself in a cell with a guy who may very well be into dudes. All of D2’s idiosyncrasies began to pop up in Brian’s mind. The way D2’s natural baritone went up a few octaves when he would ask him for something. The odd hand gestures and the frequent compliments—all of these things were more pronounced whenever they smoked pot—and thanks to D2, they smoked a lot. Brian initially chalked it up to being around a square for the first time. Now, with a slightly paranoid perspective, he saw D2’s behavior as…effeminate, maybe? Then he thought, ‘Is that why the muthafucka was smiling at me when he moved in?!?’
    Every street smart instinct in Brian implored him to kick D2 to the curb immediately. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He kept finding excuses as to why there was no need. For starters, he genuinely liked D2 as a person. Plus there was still a possibility that the guy was straight. 
    A week after his initial solo tryst with the smut, the two of them had just finished getting high and Brian couldn’t hold his tongue any longer. He needed answers. “So what’s up with the punk magazines?” he asked.
    D2 laughed. Brian wasn’t sure why, but he just waited. D2 made no apologies. “They’re not punk magazines; as you can see I’m into all kinds of porn. I draw the line at animals and kid shit. But everything else is fair game.”
    “Are you gay?” Brian asked.
    “I wouldn’t label myself that. Matter of fact I wouldn’t label myself at all,” D2 stated bluntly. Brian fell silent. D2 went on, candidly admitting to sleeping with both men and women during his drug fueled past. He explained, “a person cannot prevent their bodies from being attracted or responding to someone, whether male or female.” He caught Brian off guard when he told him he was attracted to masculine men, not the “garden variety penitentiary punk.” Brian knew right then that D2 was interested in him. 
    Ignoring his inner censor, Brian, for the first time ever, confided in another human being and spoke about his secret attraction. “If I were to fuck around it would have to be with someone who looked like a bitch.” He and D2 didn’t have the same friends so Brian figured it was safe to tell him. Although D2 didn’t share the same attraction—he found transsexuals “ridiculous,” he made it a point not to judge.
    While Brian struggled to suppress his urges and tried to train himself to keep his eyes off of the women wannabes on the yard, his cellie had no worries. Throughout his prison stint D2 had to be careful with whom he shared his sexual history. Convicts are not known for their tolerance, especially gangbangers. He had plenty of cellies that never knew about his porn stash. Over time, however, he became intuitive enough to discern who would be accepting of his sexual fluidity. To that point, he sized up Brian immediately. 
    Weeks before moving in, D2 spotted Brian standing in the weight pile clandestinely checking out the backsides of a gaggle of punks walking by. Brian had no idea that he was being watched and admired. He didn’t know D2 counted himself lucky when he was serendipitously moved into Brian’s cell. Brian had no clue that his new cellmate gave him access to his magazines, more for strategic reasons than mere jailhouse courtesy. He employed the same tactic with his seemingly endless supply of marijuana. Having been around drugs long enough D2 understood their uninhibiting effects. Brian lowered his guard and unloaded his secrets, not suspecting he was being wooed. This, along with D2’s low key disposition led Brian to give in to temptation. And although he kept the act “manly,” the fact of the matter was he broke Rule 10.

    Back to Present Day
    The booming voice of a guard brought Brian back from his trip down memory lane. Two and a half hours had passed since disembarking from the bus and now they were being assigned cells in the intake building. New arriving inmates are placed on orientation for a couple of weeks, during which time they are segregated from the general population, interviewed, classified and given the opportunity to go PC. This is done for legal reasons. Contrary to popular belief, the State doesn’t just throw inmates to the wolves without prisoner’s consent. 
    Brian was grateful to be housed with an elderly gentleman who knew nothing about his past. This allowed Brian to sleep easier, something he finds difficult since being crushed by a television during his slumber by one of his cellies who was scared, but obligated to do so.
    The following morning, Brian caught another break. He learned that all orientation inmates are fed in their cells rather than in the cafeteria. This allowed him to gather intel while remaining unseen by potential enemies. The hunted needs every advantage possible—stealth was Brian’s friend. Brian found out that his former homeboy, “Eddie G,” a guy he did dirt with years ago was calling shots on the yard. Brian knew Eddie G was fair and reasonable, and he felt like he actually had a chance to last for more than a few weeks on this yard without an attempt on his life. He also knew from experience how strong pressure is on leaders to punish rule breakers and earn stripes in front of their crew. Far too often peer pressure trumps fairness and reasoning. 
    Brian woke up early and went to the sink to wash up. He stared at his reflection in the mirror as his old cellie slept quietly a few feet away. Brian studied the once flawless tattoo on his chest. The name of his gang was printed in bold letters above his left pectoral muscle. Now, thanks to an attack from an assailant armed with a knife fashioned crudely out of scrap metal, part of one of the O’s in the word “BLOOD” was gone—replaced with ugly scar tissue. 
    Brian rubbed the two-year-old scar, thinking about the failed attempt on his life. He fingered a different scar on the back of his neck—the result of a razor attack a year later. Receiving battle scars from his own homies was the last thing Brian expected when he became Alpha Dog. Looking back, he also never imagined breaking one of the rules he swore to enforce.
    Every time he paused to reflect on his time in the cell with D2, the more bitter he became. Oddly enough, he wasn’t mad at his former homeboys for the repeated attacks. “Rules are rules,” he thought. Nor did he blame himself. Brian directed his anger squarely on one person: D2.
    Brian felt used and taken advantage of; a real blow to his manhood. However, that’s not why he was bitter. He willingly satisfied his curiosity; and enjoyed it too. No, Brian was bitter because D2 exposed him. Brian wasn’t sure who he told, or why. At first, he theorized D2 blabbed to a friend whom he mistakenly trusted with the secret. But not so deep down, Brian believed D2 did it with malicious intent because Brian was only interested in one thing, while D2 wanted more. Days after experiencing that one thing, Brian moved out of their cell and into a cell with one of his homeboys, pissing off D2 in the process.
    The homeboy he moved in with got wind of the egregious rule violation and ended up being the guy who tried to crush his skull with a television as he slept. Prison yards are like small towns—no secrets are safe.
    Brian realizes that it wasn’t worth it. He still had to wait a few more years before his parole date, and he considered going PC during his orientation interview. Not only would he escape the attacks, he’d also be able to live in a cell with whomever he pleased. However, in spite of his misstep, Brian still considered himself a badass. Going PC would feel like a bitch move and Brian wasn’t ready to give up on being rebellious. Yes, he was at war with his homeboys, but he’s won some of the battles. The guy who busted him over the head with the TV had to have eye socket surgery. The guy who sliced his neck lost a tooth before his back-up ran over and finished Brian off. 
    Happy and more than a little nervous to be off of orientation, Brian prepared for the yard. Fear of yet another beat-down, along with salacious thoughts of hooking up with a punk was urging Brian to go PC, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. So he decided to man-up and do what he’s been doing for the past four years. He made himself a knife and headed out to general population—ready to put on a show. 

                                             EIPLOGUE
    I have run across a lot of “Brians” while serving time. Creating his character—a guy who dare not act on his desires for fear of harm or ostracism—was bound to happen. The public likes to make “don’t drop the soap” jokes at prisoners’ expense, but in reality it does not happen behind the walls like that, mainly because of those fears. Sex in prison happens, but in most cases it is consensual and usually between people who sleep with men outside of prison and people like Brian. 
    While inmates like Brian are common, inmates like “D2” used to be an anomaly. Before California politicians scared voters into passing harsh, tough on crime laws, only hardened criminals were doing time. But with the “Three Strikes Law” passing, harmless citizens began to get caught up in the state’s dragnet. The D2s of the world were now getting life sentences for the pettiest of crimes. 
    As an ex-gang member and current anti-gang crusader, writing about the madness of that culture wasn’t much of a stretch; however, the overall subject of the piece was challenging. I want to thank those who encouraged me to continue when I was ready to scrap the project, and also give additional thanks to all of my interview subjects. Keep being yourselves, it looks good on you.

    Damon R. Matthews is an aspiring writer from Los Angeles, Calif. He spends his not-so-free time writing/performing songs and penning stories. In addition to being co-instructor of the institution’s Creative Writing Class, he earns extra money editing for fellow inmates. Poised to be liberated next year, Damon looks forward to meeting creative people, and networking with those who could assist in his reentry into society.
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