Category Archives: Story

The Prison Writer – Chapter 09

By Joshua Ryan

That afternoon I collapsed on my bunk and began to think.  I thought about what a fool that counselor was and about how he must be wrong, how he must have been talking to some imaginary Steven Meres who was going to spend his life in prison.  I thought about how much I hated him for saying those terrible words to me, and how many things I’d like to do to show him that I had a life and he didn’t.  Every time I looked down at the childish orange clothes they’d put me in, I saw how much he and “the institution” had on their side.

But … I needed to come to my senses.  After all, I was there to write a book.  I should be remembering my observations, collecting my story descriptions … I tried, but I couldn’t focus on that.  It all seemed like thoughts in some other person’s mind, the mind of somebody who wasn’t locked in a steel box.

On the morning of the seventh day I was cuffed and taken out of my box and marched to the end of the big hallway, where there was a door that led to a loading dock.  Standing on the dock was a cage with bars on its top and all four sides.  It was a very large cage, and I was put into it with about 80 other prisoners.  The officer who put me in pointed to a small steel toilet next to the bars. “You need to use the can, use it now.  You’re goin on the chain bus.”

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Another Weekend – Part 1

By slavebladeboi

I turned off the ignition and walked the bike backwards down his driveway. I was already hot inside the leathers, the lining of which was beginning to stick to my skin. Kicking the sidestand into position, I swung my leg over and stood. The front door was closed, but he always left it unlocked when I was due to make an appearance. I undid the helmet strap and pulled my new Shoei up and off, this one was white with blue and yellow lightning flashes, making sure not to drop it like I did once before with an older one. So much for not being nervous.

Gloves off, keys in pocket, best foot forward.

Once inside the hallway I stripped off. Not as easy as you may think. I like my leathers good and tight, which adds to the “cling factor” when I’m naked and sweaty beneath them. After taking off my boots and having a one-man wrestling match with my one piece I folded the leathers as much as I could and placed my helmet and gloves on top. Deep breath and on into the next room.

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The Prison Writer – Chapter 08

By Joshua Ryan

The line ended at a door that was so important we had to be buzzed through.  On the other side was a wide white hallway with wooden doors on one side and steel doors on the other — and a yellow line on the left, of course.  Finally we got to a place where there were two steel doors with a glass booth between them.  An old officer was seated in the booth.  Officer Collison pulled me over and told me to stand in front of the glass.

“Got one for ya, Pop.”

“Yeah?  Don’t look like much.  But OK, if you say so.  Hold up your arm, boy.  I wanta see that bracelet you got.”

“Yes, Sir.”  I held it up to the window.  He half-rose in his chair and scanned my wristband.

“Nother lifer,” he said.  “Well, welcome to free room and board.  I’ll take him into Number 2.”

Continue reading The Prison Writer – Chapter 08

The Prison Writer – Chapter 07

By Joshua Ryan

It wasn’t totally dark in there.  The place reminded me of a parking garage or an auto shop.  Lights were hanging from the ceiling, and not far from the spot where Dean parked you could see a little inside building blazing with light against the murky background.  It was apparently some kind of office where we had to stop.

Dean unlimbered his big body and stood in front of the car.  Another big guy came out of the office, carrying a cell phone in his hand.  This guy also looked like a cop, but he was wearing a gray uniform.  He was talking loud, and Dean talked loud to match him.

“Hey bro.  How’s it goin.”

“How’s it goin, Hal.”

“Not so bad.  I see you got somethin in there.”  He peered at me in the back seat, chained under glass.  Then he pulled out his phone.  “Name?”

“Meres,” Dean said.  “M-e-r-e-s.  Here’s his shit.”

He handed a brown envelope to the man in gray, who opened it and checked its contents against whatever he saw on the phone.

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The Prison Writer – Chapter 06

By Joshua Ryan

It takes a little over half an hour to get to Glenvue from where I’d been living, but I was so wired up I don’t remember anything about the drive except being wired up.  I was a mile from my destination when I came out of my nerves enough to notice that Glenvue was a lot more prosperous than I’d thought it was.  I hadn’t pictured Dean working in a place that was quite that well off.  Maybe that explained why they didn’t mind hiring gays!  It looked like the kind of town where they wash the streets every night and you get fined if you don’t have a two-car garage.  I couldn’t help looking at it and thinking, “If my next book sells, I’m gonna get a place out here.”

The driver slowed down and turned in my direction.  He was a 20-something with a pony tail and a taste for the smooth jazz channel.  “You said 623 White Oak, right?”

“Right.”

“That’s it over there, but there must be somethin wrong, man.  It’s the County Jail.”

Continue reading The Prison Writer – Chapter 06

The Prison Writer – Chapter 05

By Joshua Ryan

I realized that I’d wanted something new to happen to me, but I had no idea how quickly it would happen.  As the man says in “Heart of Darkness,” “the changes take place inside, you know.”  Which means that they can happen at the speed of light.  When we got back to Jerry’s house I wasn’t walking in as a guest; I was walking in as a prisoner escorted by an officer of the law.  It was hard for me to talk.  Everyone else seemed freer and looser than they’d been before.  Dean seemed to be talking and smiling even more.  When people started to leave, I was amazed that they could get through the door without permission.  When I left, it was like I was sneaking away before the guards could catch me.

I spent the next few days huddling in the condo — which had never been mine and now felt like some illegal squat.  I got drunk and jerked as if that was my true profession.  Ten days later, I was riffling through my junk mail and found an envelope that was long and heavy and return-addressed to a PO box that looked decidedly official.  It had been mailed to somebody named Meres Steven Curtis.  Oh, shit.  That little drive with Dean hadn’t been a daydream after all.

I ripped open the envelope and yes, it was a message from the

DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS

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The Prison Writer – Chapter 04

By Joshua Ryan

Jerry’s new boyfriend was giving him a birthday party — arranged by Jerry, of course.  There’s no point in describing it; it was just a big gay gathering with the ordinary number of lushes and phonies and nice guys, none of them interested in me.  Dean and Craig were part of the crowd standing around the quesadillas.  The usual drinks, the usual food, the usual conversation, the usual question from Jerry: “How’s the next book comin?”

“Slowly.”

“Gimme a date!  Publisher wants more of you.”

“I’m sure.  But I’ve paid for your BMW, and I’ve paid for your pool, so I’m doing this one at my own pace.”

“Come on!  It’s April!  I wanta fill the pool.”

“Whatever that means … As you know, my last book’s in the third printing…”

“Which means it’s about time to give em a new one.  Look…”

A 30-something in shorts that were far too tight for him wandered over, and I had the pleasure of meeting “Rory,” the latest BF.  That was that, but after a while Dean detached himself from Craig and the others who were grouped around him and strode in my direction.  He was the only person I knew who actually looked good in a Hawaiian shirt.

“Pushing the season?” I asked.

“Yeah, I know it’s early.  Follow me.  I told Craig you’d like a look at my car.”

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The Prison Writer – Chapter 03

By Joshua Ryan

Pictures from the next morning:  Dean’s smooth, heavy body filling my bed.  My head jerking up as memories hit me from the night before.  My feet stumbling over the clothes I’d strewn on the carpet.  Wine glasses lying dead in front of the couch.  My hands fumbling with the coffee maker, anxious to fix the obligatory brew and get this stranger out of my home.  Dean striding into the kitchen — white tank top, black boxers, bare feet, and the shadow of a beard.  “Make mine scrambled.”

Apparently he’d leave when he wanted to leave.

“I think,” he said, taking his final bite of the eggs, “you should use your own name.  No pen names this time.”

“Do you mind telling me what you’re talking about?”

“I’m talking about the name you’ll use in prison.  Steven Meres.  That’s good enough.”

Continue reading The Prison Writer – Chapter 03