Writing from Malcolm at Monroe Mens Prison

This blog comes to us from the writing workshop we did Friday at Monroe Correctional Complex. Thank you, Malcolm Jackson.

Mustard yellow side shingles stained with dirt. Most of it from the hands of a writer. Causing destruction with gifts. One single stump in the moist lush yard. Tailor made by my fathers ideals of perfection. The red stairs were concrete leading to a heavy wooden door you had to push on with all your strength. The smell of incense hit you immediately. Frankincense and Jasmine, so it never surprised me when he named my sister Eternity. The couch was black and white blends of a cloth cracked by what looked like a fight between salt and pepper exploding onto material. The carpet, though long forgotten seems orange in my mind. Loose in some places. Fringed at he edges. We had more rugs on the walls than anywhere. Faces or places in distant lands with sheiks riding white horses on the eve of night. Stars in the distance above the roof of a masjid. The kitchen door creaked loudly. It was the alarm to ruin my moments of hunger. String cheese and silent gulps from an orange juice container were my favorite, that and Milano cookies and goldfish crackers. My safe place existed when my father was working. So it meant I lived in school and walked slowly home. Didn’t want to see the grey Subaru. That always meant trouble…

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