Chasing Faith

“Chasing Faith” was retitled “Why I Write Graffiti” and published in Arlington Magazine in January, 2019

By Shane Mills

 First Place winner, non-fiction, Arlington County Detention Facility/Heard Writing Contest, July 2018

 

Behind me fluorescent lights of the skyline fade in and out through the smog. Behind that, millions of stars and the moon provide the only light required for this act of creative destruction.

 

I stop for an introspective moment and ponder the timeless open-ended questions: “Why are we here?” “What’s the purpose of this life we’ve been gifted?” I snap out of it and get back to the answer I’ve come to know best – my personal pursuit of happiness, here among the abstracted topography, the animated characters of vibrant colors.

 

A perfect balance of anticipation, exhilaration, satisfaction, and bliss. Whatever the meaning of life is, I can’t be too far off. If only I could bottle this concoction and share it with the world, because in this moment I am truly free.

 

This is a story about, as Paulo Cuelho in his classic “The Alchemist” states, following your “Personal Legend,” finding your true passion, and never letting that fire inside burn out.

 

The topic at hand touches on mine, but it’s also more universal that that. So, I implore you to find whatever it is that you love, that makes you tick, and never let it go.

 

No, I’m not in Disneyland. We’re under a bridge along the train tracks running through a seedy section of the city, because with gentrification encroaching, this is the last stronghold of a pure living, breathing urban art form. I’m here doing my part to keep it alive; I’m here with my cans communicating presence.

 

What started, some would argue, during the Great Depression with train hobos signing their monikers on boxcars as they travelled across the country and some even developing a following through the compulsion, and essentially the rudimentary beginnings of what is now termed “fame” or trying to be “up” as much as possible (both terms being lingo for prolific repetition and overall quantity of that moniker on surfaces far and wide (Bozo-Texino), has morphed and poly-morphed into a worldwide underground art movement now with different genres and sub-genres each with different societal acceptance and cultural respect).

 

Like most crafts, hobbies, interests etc., there will always be the opinionated ones to comment on legitimacy:

 

  • The classic Porsche enthusiast who detests anything other than manual transmissions
  • The street skater who lives and breathes to kick, push, and coast around the city will claim Tony Hawk is a sellout.

 

From surfers, hackers, musicians, and everywhere in between, every scene has them, the detractors from within the structural confines of that culture, their scene, who might argue that when you take something you do for pleasure, for pure, organic enjoyment and try to capitalize on it, to monetize it and turn it into a commodity, you are a sellout. You have lost the true meaning of what got you there in the first place, that not all things in life should be viewed as potential income, and when you capitulate to the outsiders, the mainstream, the corporations, you’re an accessory to cultural appropriation and you’re part of the problem.

 

But I’m not here to argue semantics this time around. I’m here to give a window into the true essence of why we do the things we do, the passion behind it, and the deeper, profound meaning to this alter-ego we create for ourselves.

 

I’m here to get to the root of what it truly means to be a graffiti writer or street artist. The compulsion, justifications, rationalizations, that come with it. From the selfishness of writing on what isn’t ours to the selflessness of creating free public art.

 

Didn’t ask for it? Well we didn’t ask for presidents’ faces in mountains, or McDonald’s billboards crammed down our throats either.

 

Graffiti in its current iteration began in New York City in the 1970s on the subway trains. The city was in shambles, and near bankruptcy. For a lot of the youth the trains were an escape, a stress outlet, a form of communication.

 

These artists also know as “writers” could gain respect from their neighborhood and potentially other parts of the city by controlling or “kinging” a line with as many stylized “pieces” as possible. Some crews of writers claimed whole train yards for only their clique to paint in. The more trains your name was on, the more different lines you had kinged, the more property your crew monopolized, the more respect your alias carried.

 

For some that respect was alluring. Surrounded by blight, drugs, crime, and poverty, the opportunity to step into this pseudonym and have respect, celebrity status, fame, a sense of purpose, and belonging can be all to intoxicating.

 

Although I didn’t grow up in a burnt-out, apocalyptic Bronx I know a thing or two about seeking escape and searching from some kind of meaning, of wanting to find common ground when home life was anything but common. A desire to relate through the unrelatable.

 

My angst usually kept me involved in what I’ll call “fringe activities”: BMX, punk music, smoking weed, and through those my first introductions to graffiti. I can remember my first two instances of tagging something, first being my name with money comically coming out of the back of it in a culvert pipe when I was 11, and the at 13 spraying “Ride BMX ‘03” in a tunnel off of a concrete storm ditch we used to ride. Little did I know how it would shape my life for the better and for worse years later, or the profound passion it would subconsciously ignite in me.

 

What started as an anarchistic, rebellious sense of expression over the years has taken on so many additional meanings: catharsis, therapy, creative outlet, social medium, instant gratification, self-satisfaction.

 

What began with no artistic intention has turned into 30 color murals executed with ladders and scaffolding and walls painted at the Kennedy Center events. But it’s here, on the Red Line in N.E. DC that I am in my true element. This slice of the city at 3 am, while you were probably sleeping. I find my peace. I feel like I’m the last person in the world and I’m proving I still exist, if only to myself.

 

I’m busy being born.

 

I’d be lying if I denied the egotistical aspects or the overall existential crisis playing out every time I paint a new spot, after all, this is the equivalent to a boiled-down, in-real-life social media profile where we curate how we want others to view us…bright, funky colors and loose letters for the hipster maybe, or dark colors with jagged sharp letters, and a gangster hip-hop character with a gun so they know I “go hard”, or a philosophical quote so they know I’m deep…

 

But aside from how we want to be perceived on the outside, that doesn’t explain the cause for the emotion it evokes within, why for 12 consistent, consecutive years I’ve spend multiple nights a week in otherwise unsavory areas or all day on weekend out in a secluded section of woods underneath a highway painting walls.

 

I’m locked in a perpetual race to nowhere. When I’m not painting, I’m mapping other cities. I’m walking around on Google Maps on street view mode seeking rooftops or following train tracks on satellite view til the tracks dip under roads or run past abandoned looking buildings. I’ve even gotten good at spotting walls from above and knowing if they’re tall enough by the shadows they cast.

 

An unquenchable thirst to be everywhere. I want regional saturation, then national. I want it all. What I want is an omnipresence! But that in itself is the unattainable end goal. Everything along the way means just as much as the finished product.

 

The missions with friends, the exploration of forbidden, often long-forgotten places, mutually finding the beauty in urban decay. The laughs and collaboration with the eclectic group of individuals I’d never have gotten to know.

 

Racial, social, musical, and political lines were blurred. Doesn’t matter. We’re brought together because we write graffiti. We are street artists who have a shared perspective on our cities’ tunnels, train tracks, rooftops, and alleys.

 

Sometimes, the destination is the journey, just as much as crossing the finish line. I’ve embarked on this great adventure, somewhat unknowingly, with my outward manifestation of an inward escape, building a nationwide network of like-minded people keeping this art form alive against all odds.

 

So as long as I’m breathing, and this fire keep burning I’ll be following my “Personal Legend.” I’ll be expanding my legacy, leaving pieces of me scattered around like hidden treasures for when I am no more. I’ll be pursing infamy.

 

I’ll be chasing faith.

7 Years

By Shogua Waziri

Friends of Guest House, June 8, 2022

It all started the moment I turned 18. Well not that exact moment but you get the gist of things. I grew up with amazing parents who never skipped a beat. They were active in me and my brother’s life’s, making us a family that was close.

I redid the whole dynamic of my family the day I started using. I took 18 years of the same routine and natural life and turned it upside down and inside out. I stole somebody’s daughter, and someone’s sister the moment I started IV’ing my arms, I stole her and didn’t give her back to her family for the next 7 years.

For the next 7 years that family was going to loose their precious little daughter and their older sister to the disease of addiction. She was going to be alive but at the same time her presence would thin out in their life’s, her life wasn’t about anyone but herself and her disease for the next 7 years.

Her brothers didn’t have anything to do with her, they gave up, I mean how many times will you believe someone who comes home once in a blue moon and breaks down crying to you that they will never do what they have done, only to walk out the front door that very night again?

My disease not only robbed them out of their daughter but it robbed me from me. I was replaced with this human being that I thought I would never be, I was foreign to the body and mind I was living in.

I had nothing to show for the past 7 years of my life besides a lengthy record which marched me right out of several jobs.

I had nothing to show for the past 7 years besides some track marks and tattoos.

I had nothing and yet the drugs I was partaking in made me feel like I had everything. The drugs made me think I was whole and happy when I had them, but oh were the drugs taunting and screaming at me when I didn’t have them yearning for my arms or my nose or lips to take them in, so they could make a home inside of me.

The drugs had taken me out of my home so they could make their home inside of me.

Write Here, Write Now!

March 10, 2022 – Sometimes magic happens when you put paper to pen. Our partner Together We Bake knows that more than anyone, and we love being part of their training program! In fact, they were the first organization we reached out to as a potential partner when Heard began in 2017 (their fabulous chocolate chips cookies may have had something to do with it)! Every semester they include a writing class into their training program and we were happy to help! Today our Heard professor Betsy Allen (yes, Betsy is a professor at George Mason University, holds a master’s degree in creative fiction) led us through a journaling class. Armed with the new notebooks that we always provide, we wrote about what we learned last year, our goals for this year, and what our ideal career would be five years from now (mine is running Heard). It’s amazing what comes out of your brain and onto a blank page. I had a major “aha” moment and once again realized that writing really is cheaper than therapy.

Writing with Maisie

We’re always up for something new, and this time we took on creative writing for our “Fun Fridays” program with the kids at Casa Chirilagua. Our Solveig Eggerz took on the challenge of creating and sharing a story for 24 kids (grades 1-3 for 40 minutes, then grades 4-5 for 40 minutes). Ever the (many times published) writer, Solveig created “Maisie the Frog” based on the Grimms’ Fairy Tales “The Three Feathers.” The kids listened, discussed, acted, shared, and ultimately wrote about Maisie in their Heard notebooks. Not a bad way to spend a Friday afternoon!

From Da Bronx to D.M.V.

Jeffrey Melendez

 Third place, Nonfiction, Heard/Arlington County Detention Facility writing contest, August 2021

I can still hear Da Bronx and smell the Bronx. It’s his own world. Very different very unique very alive in spirit, in culture. All different types of races, ethnics, different flags hanging from windows, Puerto Rican, Nigerian, Cuban, Dominican, Jamaican, Ethiopian. We all from different countries but we stick together here in America, here in the Bronx. If we can make it in New York City, we can make it anywhere. I’m proud that I was born there.  I still hear police sirens, honking horns in morning traffic different languages Chinese Swahili Spanish.

I hear car alarms going off and ambulance too. People screaming inside the Yankees stadium. I hear Mr. Softee ice cream truck. I can’t forget I hear the A, B and D train. Music playing through thru windows speakers blaring Salsa, Rap, Merengue, Reggae, Hip-Hop, Soka, Bachata, Danie Hull. The fire hydrant popped because it’s hot that’s all. White man pull-up in the white vans, asking for papers. Pops working late to put food on the table.

You see me I ain’t have the same luxuries I have 2 grandmothers in different countries. I’m a first generation born American I can’t say I’m going to grandmoms today she 2,000 miles away.  In the Bronx I can hear families argue about eviction notice. From High Bridge, Kings Bridge, 3rd Ave. Big Brother telling Little Brother don’t be a loser be a winner.

Moms going to a corrupt church the pastor is the biggest sinner. Moms cooking food, gun shots go-off her son ain’t coming home for dinner. In the corner smells of delicious Jamaican food, curry chicken, coco bread, and beef patties and in the other corner Giovannis Italian Pizza up the block, the Chinese spot. Down the block Dominican restaurant fry plantain with everything delicious. Never mind that half the buildings are rat and roach infested, Black and Brown around here we got Big money invested. We unite U.N.I.T.Y Latinos, African Americans, East Africans, West Africans. We all learn from each other different foods, dances, languages.

This is the Bronx. We are stars. On the rooftops we look up we don’t see stars. We see Police Helicopters and the Goodyear Blimp above the New York Yankees stadium. Shout out my Puerto Ricans, Jamaicans, Hondurans, Haitians, Dominicans, Nigerians, Trinidadians, Asian, and Italians. The good men doing time in Rikers Island. People taking meds in the Asylum. My young youth in the street wilding. No matter where I go I represent where I’m from (The Bronx) I’m from DA B.X.

Mental Love

D. Miller

First place (tie), fiction, Heard/Alexandria Detention Center writing contest, August 2021

May 17th, 2017 (New York City) — The bathroom faucet is running as I splash cold water on my face, looking up to see my reflection in the mirror. The moon cast its silvery light across my face revealing a wide-eyed, gauntly gaze staring back at me. This couldn’t be me, could it? Night after night for two weeks I’ve had the same dream, leaving me baffled. It never changes. I’m walking through a field of tall grass with a mature maple tree looming in its center. A woman swings from an old tire hanging from a lower limb, her back is to me as the wind flutters her rich auburn hair. She looks over her shoulder spying me.

“Who are you? Do we know one another?,” only spoken words I could muster in this unconscious mirage. Facing me finally all I saw were her eyes, her gaze illuminated her hazel eyes surrounded by a green ring. She seems happy to see me… I feel the same way. This is crazy, right? Caught in the rapture of her eyes, she opens her arms to greet me. Holding her in my arms I … POOF!! I’m jolted awake in a cold sweat. The simple words of who, what, when, where & why flood my mind. Is she my future love? She means a great deal to me… right? Now to figure out the face that go with the soul warming auburn locks. Face equals a name. Searching the old memory bank of women who I know, work with, and those passing on by.

Nothing. Shit!

Tired & stressed to the max, I sat at my desk the next morning going over notes for todays pitch of a new study. S.P.I.E.S.— 007? You wish — short for Schizophrenic Penitentiary Inmates Education Study, it’s a long title. I know… The research being done is ahead of its time. Think what we will learn about the makeup of schizophrenia genes — the early signs & opening doors to finding cures. Those who are acutely affected to be reversed and a vaccine to prevent it for all others.

Ring, ring, ring. “Bradly Allen, how may I hel —“ I said after picking up my office line. “Okay, thank you. Uh huh. I’m on the way Connie,” I replied before picking up my notes and heading to the elevator. Connie’s our scheduling executive, she does it all. From meetings to family vacations for the top brass here at Cranial Research Institute (CRI). We’re a research study group with mental health patients all over the United States, plus here at Sinai Hospital in Manhattan.

There are occasions of field work on special projects, like, SPIES. The connection of schizophrenia & incarcerated people has been my baby for five years or so. Minorities & poverty stricken families have the hardest time seeing doctors for regular visits, mental health counseling isn’t an option for most. Here we can learn about the inmates mind, possible past episodes or warning signs before being diagnosed, if ever. Straightening my tie & displaying my million dollar smile, I walk through the blonde oak door say,

“Welcome everyone, lets get started.” The clients are none other than Baron of Devonshire and his business partners — investment lawyers. Hopefully we’ll get the contract signed today.

After lunch everything in my office was ringing, beeping or chirping. How can I concentrate on rewriting the contract with added agreed compromises? Oh well, full participation, decorative home furnishings in the interview rooms is what Baron Maxwell Anthony Thomasson IV — aka MAT — wanted. Only the best technology & personnel to run the trials at “The Point” (highly secure prison for mentally disturbed criminals).

MAT said, “Mr. Allen you will have 168 test subjects, ranging from 12-81 years old. Only two are housed separately from the others, and you’ll see why…” Intrigued by what he meant, but also thinking that I’m not the one who’s running the project abroad. Wakening from my thoughts he was still saying “…I expect your presence & leadership on this expedition. Also you’ll be guest at Whispering Willows, my country house.”

With that tidbit of information, a hand found the arm of a chair as I fell back down from his shocking statement. Mr. Carrington, President of C.R.I., could only shrug his shoulders while lifting his palms to the ceiling. Hearing his voice in my head, I already knew what that meant.

“Shut up and go, or we lose the deal. Then I’ll fire you.” Why me? Hands covering my face, thinking “three months abroad won’t be so bad…will it?”

Travel plans were made by Connie once she was contacted by bailiff Johns, MAT’s secretary. A private lear jet & ground transportation was waiting for the ten man team. S.P.I.E.S., filed team consisted of * Research Assistants (RA’s): Robert Collins & Veronica “Roni” Williams * Electronic Mech. Tech’s (EMT’s): Eugene Stiles & Daniel Johnston * Head Researcher: Dr. Lauryn Mallory & Dr. Phidas Bryant * Lab & Radiology Tech: Lucy & Lionel Chen (twins) — cool right. * Clinical Psychologist: Elizabeth (Liz” McCall. Lastly myself as the Psycobiologist & ring master extraordinaire.

Behind me the younger staff members — 30 & below — are getting familiar with floor plans, assigned rooms and staff names that work in the seventeen bedroom country house. Hmm… wonder what his “regular house” looks like. The three doctors are sleeping, we’re due to land in two hours. So, I’ll join them for a last chance at peace & solitude. Touching down at 1700 hrs (5 pm) British time, we cleared customs with appropriate visa’s, passports & Government documentation for the substantial equipment (14 cases — custom military lockers), all worth $1.6 million.

Forty-five minutes later I was pulling the emergency trunk holding rations & solar powered gear, in case of natural or manmade cataclysms. Storing cases & luggage in the four waiting SUV’s, we climbed inside ready to go. While driving we saw an extravagant rose garden off the two lane road we were on. Unaware that this was part of MAT’s country estate. Stopping in front of an open wood & steel dungeon-like door, where we were greeted by forty members of Baron’s staff and family. Curtsies and handshakes propelled us into the foyer behind the dungeon door, where we met the Head Butler, Mr. Whiteford. He removed our outer garments handing them over to a waiting maid, she wore a tight black skirt, green Oxford shirt with the family crest, black flats & lip gloss that sparkled on her full pouty lips. All the men were quite excited by her look.

Three months won’t be so bad after all.

After squaring myself away I was summoned for dinner in the formal dinning hall. Open collar dress shirt & slacks will hopefully pass the “formal” dress code — it’s all I brought. We were housed in the west wing of the mansion, on the second and third floors. Making my way to dinner, I stumbled upon Lucy Chen decending the staircase of the upper floor, she smiled which made me return one to her. Offering my arm to escort her down, we clamored on about this fabulous house and the rooms within it.

“My suite is joined to the Ladies Library, how cute is that. Oh there’s a solarium as well next to Lionel’s suite too,” she said excitedly. Taking our places behind our seats MAT & Krystal (Baroness) entered gracefully while we all bowed and curtsied. Taking their places at the head of the onyx lacquer table, inlaid with gold filigree leaf designs, we were able to start our first course — celery & cream gazpacho. Conversing with an investment lawyer (Emilio), I felt pin pricks in my left thigh, it was Lucy. Shrimpfork in hand giving me the hint of rescuing her from Sir Carters animated chat about dung beetles and their digestive process for the eco system.

Trying not to snicker while raising my arms tapping my wine glass for a toast. What the hell… here goes nothing. “On behalf of CRI we’d like to thank all of you for welcoming us into England & your lives. A special thanks to the Baron & Baroness’ hospitality and graciousness of their home also believing in the S.P.I.E.S. trials. With God’s will I’d like to bless us all with kindness, love & patience… Oh! God bless the Queen!”, glasses raised clinking while “Here, Here” is cheered all around. Multiple people started conversations while I resumed my seat, now Sir Carter’s informing me about the types of bug the Queen allows in her rose garden — God help me. Lucy silently mouthed “thank you” as she rose headed to the powder room down the hall.

Enjoying the mint ice cream with handmade chocolate pirouetts, plates where cleansed leaving a sweet and refreshing feeling. The gentlemen retired to the study, while ladies donned the tea cart heading to the parlor. Seeing the credenza laid out with pipes, cigars, cigarettes and two thumbed tumblers filled with 100 year old burbon, we couldn’t wait to pick our poison.

First up, Lord Willis trying to convince Daniel, Phil & myself that the NFL is a shite organization — to funny. Now a shouting match, US vs. Brits on the NBA players being washed up only to flee to European & Asian Leagues. Wiping tears from my eyes at the mention of Dennis Rodman, I spy the grandfather clock by the fireplace chiming at half past eleven. Lost in thoughts of preparation — interview rooms decor & equipment setup — Phil calls my name.

“Bradley… Bradley, what do you think of the British women we’ve seen so far? Bradley!”

“Oh sorry man, in my head. Umm, the women they… they’re very lovely if they all look like the Baroness & the maids. I wouldn’t complain,” I said as MAT smiled.

All the guys laughed whole heartily as if what I said was all lies — making me blush on the low-low. MAT’s study distorted the laughs and conversations in the hallway near the main staircase. Lionel crept over slidding the pocket doors open only to be greeted by the twin. All she said was “Hi me,” with the biggest smile her face could hold.

“It’s the twin-lepathy, we’ve had it forever. It comes in handy at work,” he said glancing over his shoulder.

“I know it was her.”

“Great to know,” I said as Lucy winked at me. Such a small gesture from a friend & co-worker, that make me see her in a new light. Her smile seemed more alluring along her dark hair, cascading over her right shoulder in a waist length braid. My pulse stirred. At the ancient age of thirty-five, it seems like I’ll never met “the one” who can acquire my pledge of Love & more. Time to look closer to home — or work — with other interest besides quality research reports & brainiacs to talk shop. If she continues with the small sexy & flirty gestures during our stay, I can ask her out. Coffee, lunch, drinks or… or something.

Hesitation? Not here especially if she’s just looking for friendly extras only. As she chats with Phil, I ask myself, “Can she be the one in the dreams? Are her eyes hazel with a green ring?” Awe hell, I’ve never looked before. “Damn it Brad, pay attention! You’re surrounded by beautiful women everyday… Everyday you only see the work & not the person. Wake the fuck up!” My conscious said while kicking me.

Log entry: 6/14/17 (Mon).  Location: Devonshire, GB

— S.P.I.E.S. Trial —          Facility: The Point

_________________________________________________________________________

Notes:  Access badges given out for entrance passageways. Interview suites are family room style, not sorrowful solitude. Staff introduced to following guards: Sgt. Helmsly (supervisor), Office Treavor (male) & Officer Smithers (female); all seem eager and competent. Their knowledge of daily habits of subjects will be a major asset. Start interview tomorrow if Daniel & Eugene have equipment up & running. “Big Gulp Crazy” is how the guards refer to inmates, 7-11 puns, go figure. Midafternoon: EMT’s done, Lab’s up and rooms staged. 4 subjects to be interviewed. Now with their Family inventory, childhood story plus 6 basic MH questions. Authorization of recording, videography, biological test & imaging scans; All signed by subjects.

_________________________________________________________________________

Subject: Browne, Stanley. Age: 47. DOB: 1/28/70  Home Status: Orphan

Parents: Browne, Paul & Stien, Bette     Siblings:  unknown

 

Childhood Summary: (Browne, S — speaking) At 4 years I was left on the rise of a church. I sat in the cold rain until parishioners showed up in the morning. They feed, bathed then picked up boy babies heading to the orphanage. Lost, alone & bloody unwanted, I ran away at 15.

Q1: What age did you notice there might be something mentally wrong?

Stanley Browne: Well… Sir I’m not sure. I didn’t know there was any such thing until my early 30’s. Taking a swipe at it… uh, maybe 12 or 13 years old, when manhood came.

Q2: Did you ever seek help?

SB: No, I acted out, leading me to run with the ruffians of the alleys.

Q3: What age was your first criminal act & charge?

SB: I’m sure 15 I went to jail for burglary.

Q4: What or who lead you to commit your first crime?

SB: With no real family there wasn’t many options for me on the street. No food or shelter, only an attitude & knapsack of clothes. Breaking into empty flats to stay dry & eat. I found permanent place but no money for necessities, so back to burglary. Caught with a .38mm after breaking into Tower House (upscale). Guy came home & found me loading up his fine gold wares. I shot him 7 times then ate’m.

Q5: When did you start seeing a MH specialist consistently with medication?

SB: Bollocks! Help for me… Not til I arrived here. 7 years back.

Q6: What’s your diagnosis?

SB: Mild Schizophrenia & Clipmoanic (Kleptomaniac). Stealing is a comfort.

_________________________________________________________________________

Watching Dr. McCall thank Mr. Browne for his honesty & hoped to see him again. Exiting, Officer Treavor was there to escort him back to his cell. Hailing them from the adjacent room to stop, I said “As you’re our first group, I’d like to say thank you.”

Browne & Treavor looked at me ask “Why?”

With a grinning reply of “That’s my good manners. Once the others are done, please jot down your favorite foods. Skies the limit! Give ‘em to the Sgt. by Wednesday, celebration on Friday.”

Nodding as he walked back Browne mumbling to himself, smiling with more pep in his step. Sgt. Helmsley popped by at 4:15 as we packed up ready to go for the day.

“Just leave those on the desk, thanks,” I said.

“Uh, well… well you may want these request rom the inmates seen,” he said drily.

“Ah, forgot about that. Is that a problem Sgt.? Replied while crossing my arms.

Authoritatively he stated, “No, but you will be faire to a ll the other inmates. I assume that you will do this again at the end, right?”

Fuck…“Yes we are with the staff too,” said while pulling out my phone to make the note. Driving along, my mind drifted to the dream. Whoever she is I can’t stop thinking about her fragrance & how her skin will feel once in my arms. Feeling a twinge I starred at my pants seeing an erection. I really need to get laid, my thoughts going left.

December 6, 2012, in early afternoon groomsmen, bridesmaids, flower girls ring bearer and the groom — me — were in place at the altar. On time! Anxiety and perspiration building waiting for the bride to enter. Fifteen minutes later an usher brought a folded napkin down the aisle, looking her I took the napkin.

The scribbling read, “Sorry.” She didn’t… No!  She… she jilted me! Tears falling freely from my 6’3” muscular frame. Helplessly, I faced God wailing and embarrassed beyond all means. Leaving a shattered & crumbled heap of nothing at the pastors feet. After that there’s nothing, its been locked away (File name “Soul Snatcher”).

My mother checked me into St. Mark’s MRC for Catatonia, the next day. My mind was reduced to one word, like a scratched record. “Sorry” fucked me up.

Don’t ask what they taught me, but after fourteen months, two weeks & three days… I walked out a fixed man. That morning was the best day, released and headed to a job interview at CRI. Paying it forward, I needed to help those suffering find themselves again. Two years, nine months and sixteen days later, look at me now. Help comes in many forms, you just have to ask for it.

Long story short my bride was pregnant by her ex. Now she’s a single mother on welfare. The ex ended up marrying her best friend. Karma’s a bitch, aint it.

Adjourned to the upstairs library following dinner, Phil, Lauren and myself sat by the oversized hearth. Sipping English tea, while sitting on on 17th century chairs, we discussed todays findings and hypotheses of the subjects.

Lauryn stated, “With these subjects, it seems that adolescent puberty (10-14) is possibly their psyche trigger. This changes the conscious thoughts…” interrupted by Phil’s rude addition, “Quite right, the conscious now pairs with the subconscious inventing characters that are helping or hindering them to relate reality from fantasy. Deflection & assimilation of these emotions, thoughts and wants become chaotic. Thus resulting an undiagnosed, schizophrenic teenager,” he said winking at Lauryn.

Reviewing their statements plus the test results and questionaires, we have a wealth of new unfounded information. Nodding in agreement my cell phone rings, retrieving it reveals the boss on the line. He must still be in the office with the time difference.

“Mr. Carrington, good evening,” said as I excused myself to the far window. “Hope I’m not disturbing anything. I’m calling for a verbal report on your first day,” he said while the elevator chimed in the background.

“No problem sir, we’re able to interview four subjects. We’re reviewing as you were calling. Lauryn & Phil believe…,” said as my cell vibrated on my ear. Not listening to Mr. Carrington’s dramatic take on what I’ve told him, I checked my W.I.M.P. (work influx message portal), seeing Lucy’s message: Come to the lab when you can. Lucy C.

Minutes later excusing myself, I headed for the back stairs leading to the unused Larder our makeshift lab. Opening the door showed both Chen’s jotting notes with a microscope between them. “What’s all the fuss about?” playfully I said.

“We found some similarities in three sets of test samples…,” she said in one breath.

Lionel continued, “Bradley look!” pointing at the slides. “We’ve found a mutated chromosome,” as I peered into the lens showing triple split hematological samples.

Flabbergasted, my mind reeling in awe, I give them celebratory hugs. Lionel, the non-emotional hermit, side skipped walking out the door muttering curses at me to only slam it.

Still embraced she looks up at me, her eyes hazel… with a green ring, captured my soul. How come I’ve never noticed before? Lost in “what if” she makes the first move. Guiding my lips to hers for the sweet supple kiss to linger on my trembling lips. “What happening?” I whispered as the scent of daisy’s and jasmine overwhelmed me. Tightening my grip around her waist, pulling her closer to me. Desperation came over me, I didn’t just want her, I needed her, hopefully she needed me too.

Breathlessly stepping back to see her eyes dancing revealed water droplets, Lucy is the water in needed. Drinking her in, my mouth opened and shut as she spoke.

“Don’t leave me, I’ve waited so long for you to see me,” her voice less than a whisper. She continued, “For two years I’ve dreamt of a male silhouette, his touch on my skin, his scent branded in my olfactory, while the sun rays penetrate my soul. Mr. Carrington offered Lionel and I positions at CRI, touring the building you shook our hands welcoming. us. Do you remember? You…. Your cologne trailed you, and I knew that scent, the silhouette dream man. I tried to get closer to you by advancing in the company, but still nothing. This was my last try, I was giving up.”

Tears escaped from the eyes I knew so well. Her dream was my dream. Our dream. But how? Not aware I was nearing her again, the table was her perch. Kissing while shedding her clothes, shoes fell, buttons flew and pants were snatched off. Her hand roaming the muscles of my chest there was no more talking just bodies shifting, excessive moaning, hurried respirations & enough body heat to fry eggs. Our wants, our needs. Slid her to the end of the table kissing her neck, breast & navel until my hands grasped… God she felt good. Teasing her with lavish kisses I fell into a dreamy seventh heaven state crossing her golden plain.

Climbing back down the hill through the forested valley, stumbling and lashing out to drive back saplings to reach the Ho-lee water. The water give man the strength and penetrating ability to drive forward. Following the stream north, I spied a man in a boat. Paying homage to him gifted safe passage to the Chalice I seek. Speaking in tongues brought a whirlwind vortex, around the boat as a helping hand guiding through the rapids Donning my blackwood staff in its prophylactic sheath, headway was made around the mounds of rock & currents in to the cave. Scraping my staff against the tight enclosed cave walls to and fro, the Ho-lee land comes to view.

The sight before my eyes brings a breath taking euphoric emotion, only tears can explain. My sheathed blackwood staff guided me against the Chalice’s walls, protection when thrusted in the waters. Picking up my pace, running sweat dripping down my entire body to the forbidden door. Fighting crashing waves that guarded the entrance, I heard my name whispered as the succulent ground thrashed beneath me. “Bradley… Come to me, I can be yours,” said the Chalice. The blackwood reverberated in hand as beads of water soaked through the sheath. Restless movements, clawing and a rapid drumbeat called out to me as the wood became overly engorged with the waters essence, taste, feel & sound. No longer a staff but an appendage of me, we were one.

Holding back her waters she spoke to me, “Find me, take me, I need to be with you.” Wishing I could speak to her, I mumbled “I need you too. I’m yours now & always.” Facing the crystalline cervical passage, power filled excitment, submissiveness & positively scary long for her pulsed from the blackwood. Still mumbling through tantalizing pain I cried out “I’ll honor, protect & love you, if you’ll have me.” Wrapping both hands around it felt strangely wonderful. The weight of my palms running up & down its engorged sheet sent quivers to every nerve. Behind the door she said, “Don’t stop, feel the power caress your soul.” Abiding her words & closing my eyes to her lights as the doors opened, I felt her spirit. A kiss was laid on my wanting lips. “Give yourself to me. Let me drink you in” echoed around me. An authoritative discharge cut thru me, “Take me, it’s yours!” That moment the wind and water rose around us. Pulse racing, sweat dripping had me struggling to breath as my heart and soul poured out for her. The Chalice was now filled with my essence. Her lips parted, giving way to our coexistence. Walking over and pulling her into my embrace she whispered, “I am yours & you are mine,” in my ear. Knowing now what it is to be wanted & loved, I basked in the ambience hearing the heartbeat of one.

Hearing faded screaming in the darkness around us, I reached out for her. Slowly blinking my eyes a bright light started to appear, I…

“…Beeeeeeep!” Good morning,” I heard.

Springing up covered in sweat confussed of my surroundings, blinking away the haze showed me where I’m at. An automated voice sounded. TV? Rescue team? Mom?… NOT BY FAR! “Current time — 7:15 am. Breakfast: Oatmeal, eggs, milk and juice. Lunch: Pea soup…,” the speaker announced. Standing barefoot on the cold floor shocked I hear uncontrollable laughter — it’s me. Which meant I’m really…. The door opened eyes captivated on what’s in her hand, I barely hear, “Mr. Allen lets get ready for eletroconvulsive therapy!” A chippy woman said. “Do you remember me, I’m Lucy,” while holding out a straight jacket. All I could do was laugh to keep from crying.

This story is purely fiction. Created by a vivid imagination while incarcerated at William G. Truesdale Detention Center @ Alexandria, Va. Characters and locations mentioned do not exist in reality. Thank you for the opportunity, I hope you were entertained.

—D. Miller, (1A Women’s Program Unit)