#shockingly tito

[9haharharley1]

[Hi hello its Ectoplasmicsodaaaaa]

Okay but that accidental first kiss prompt for pompep or blackice would be CHEF KISS

Pompep it is!

---

Attending a college Halloween party hadn't been a bad idea at the time. With the exception of that one terrible time his freshman year, Danny had never been to a real party. He wasn't sure if this one even really counted since it was hosted by the college and not some random student ready to get all the co-eds drunk.

Maybe that was why he decided to go.

It felt awkward to go without Sam and Tucker there to back him up, what with his best friends being split all over the country. He didn't even have Jazz to call and come save him if he decided he wasn't having fun, but on the plus side, his dorm was just out the door and around the corner, so really what had been the harm?

Danny pulled up his big boy pants, whipped up a quick costume, and was out the door.

It wasn't much to look at - just some black pants with a cotton ball pinned to the back to mimic a tail, a V-neck long sleeve shirt, and a black and white half-mask that exposed the lower have of his face from the nose down, molded in the shape of a goat's head, with two horns jutting out the sides. He had arranged his hair to tastefully fall in front of the mask, and when he looked in the mirror he didn't hate what he saw. So with a shrug and a steadying breath, Danny attended his first college party.

It was set up in the dining hall, the doors flung open to let attendees roam in and out to enjoy the nice weather - shockingly not too cold this time of year; not that cold weather bothered Danny at all these days. The punch had already been spiked, there were couples making out in the dark corners of the building. Snacks and finger foods had been set up around the punch bowl, and there was a food truck loitering outside next to a snow-cone truck. He could smell weed in the air and briefly entertained the idea of attaining some for himself as he bought a snow-cone.

He was interrupted from this thought by a warmth at his side.

"Enjoying the party?" came a smooth voice over his shoulder, and Danny jumped, whipping his head around to see a man standing barely a foot away. He was taller than Danny, dressed in all black, with a ram's head mask of black and glitter covering his face, the horns curling over silver hair. His goatee and pale skin stood put against so much black.

He cut a handsome figure in the dark.

Danny just shrugged at him. "I guess?" he said, taking a bite of his snowcone. "I just got here."

"Not a party person then?"

"Not really," Danny admitted. He took a seat on the nearby bench, surprised to see the man follow him and take a seat as well. "I've never really fit in enough for parties."

The man hummed. "I wouldn't say it's much of a party anyway. Have you tried the punch yet? Somone decided it would be a good idea to spike it with cheap vodka." His lips twisted into a grimace.

Danny laughed. "We're all broke college students, what did you expect?"

"I expected one of you to at least spring for Tito's," the man grumbled. Danny laughed again, but mulled over the man's words.

"So you're not a student here, are you?" he asked. He took another bite of his flavored ice.

"I use to be," he answered. "Now I'm just a... dedicated alumni." He looked down at Danny, a respectful foot away, but radiating enough heat that he may as well be sitting closer. Danny shivered. "And you? You're a student, correct?"

"Yeah." Danny nodded. The man's eyes were a deep blue, dark as the night around them. Danny could get lost in those eyes if he wasn't careful.

"What's your major?" The man's voice was so charming and silky, Danny almost felt bad for how he blushed over it.

"Oh! Uh... physics and astronomy."

"A fellow scientist, then." The man's lips curled into a small smirk, and Danny may have felt his heart skip a beat. Why was this guy talking to him?! He could be chatting up literally anyone on campus, age be damned, and take them home no questions asked! Why was he choosing to talk to Danny? "A man after my own heart."

Danny's breath came out in a shaky exhale.

He lowered his snowcone, bringing one leg up under him as he turned to face this handsome stranger. His eyes narrowed behind his mask. "Okay, Mr. Darcy. Are you flirting with me?"

The man's smirk widened further, half-turning to Danny with an arm thrown over the back of the bench, a leg coming up to cross over the other. His other hand fell to his lap as he leaned in closer.

"Depends," he said, and Danny's cheeks felt like they were on fire, "is it working?"

"Considering I wouldn't call it very good flirting," Danny muttered back, glancing away, "...yeah. It is."

The hand on the back of the bench rose, warm fingers grazing Danny's chin. "Then maybe you'll let me see your face." There was heat in dark eye, and Danny felt caught in their flames. "I'm sure those pretty eyes are even prettier without the mask."

Even as desire and heat settled in Danny's belly, Danny couldn't help but smirk, only slightly rueful. "Nah." He pulled his head away from the hot touch. "I'm not that much of a looker." He stood with his snowcone, brushing off the seat of his pants. "Maybe go find another co-ed to schmooze. I'm sure someone here is up to your standards."

Danny didn't see the way blue eyes darkened, didn't see how the man scowled at the self-deprecating words. He took a step away, fully intending on tossing his remaining flavored ice and heading back to his dorm. He wasn't in the mood to flirt with handsome older gentlemen who only wanted one night and never again.

He took a step away, but a near burning hand on his wrist stopped him back.

"Daniel"-

He barely registered his own name on a stranger's tongue before he was spun, tripping over his feet and loosing balance on a clump of grass. The older man was sat forward on the bench to stop him from walking off, hand on his wrist, but Danny yelped as he fell against him, catching himself with his free hand on a broad shoulder and a knee banged painfully into the hard plastic of the bench.

Neither of those two things mattered however.

What mattered, was the loud sound of their masks clacking loudly together in the night. What mattered was the wide blue eyes staring at him, nearly crossed from how close they were. What mattered was the fluttering in his heart, the lump in his throat, the heat in his belly as lips, soft and wet and near scalding pressed to his own as Danny stared wide-eyed at the man now practically under him. Those dark eyes fell half-shut as Danny pulled away barely an inch, eyes wide, as those deep blues bled red with barely surpressed emotion.

Danny tried to keep the panic out of his voice as he whispered, breath icy cold against hot lips, "...Vlad?"

His voice sounded so small even to his own ears, and Vlad's eyes darkened further. "I will give you a million dollars if you stay right here," Vlad said, heat and promise masking the desperation in his voice. Danny's breathing picked up.

He shoved away from the older man, Vlad falling back into the bench as Danny phased through his hold. His snow-cone had long been abandoned to the ground, and before Vlad could reach out to him, Danny was gone, invisible in an instant, and nearly three seconds later, fighting back panicked tears in the safety of his dorm, his hand shaking as he held it over his mouth.

[tripcounselors]

Goa- For Beach Lovers

Goa is, without a shadow of a question, one of the most well-known places in India that one ought to visit while still in their twenties. vivacious and full of life! Goa is one of the best places to visit in India for a holiday since it boasts an exciting nightlife, an extensive range of alcoholic beverages, beach shacks, and prices that are shockingly inexpensive. You might maximize the amount of fun you have on vacation by taking a cruise from Mumbai to Goa if you're interested in seeing the most popular sights in Goa.

Attractions in Goa include beaches such as Vagator, Calangute, Anjuna, Colva, and Benaulim; Fort Aguada; the Church of Mae De Deus; the Temple of Bodgeshwar; the Dudhsagar Waterfalls; St. Xavier's Church; Grand Island (for watersports); and clubs such as Cafe Mambos, Titos, LPK (Love Passion Karma), SinQ, and Club Cubana.

Please don't hesitate to get in touch with one of our experienced Trip Counselors if you have any queries about the exciting and reasonably priced Goa vacation packages we provide.

[oliversaluki]

Dog Piles {Ollie & Tito}

Ollie had stood in front of the door of the guy’s apartment for nearly ten minutes before he had gone inside. Of course they saw each other and they checked in but now that the night was done. The night turned to day, Ollie could only imagine that the guys didn’t want to see him.

They would - Ollie didn’t even know but what if they didn’t want him anymore. Had Ollie turned too much into Roscoe? His first answer being violence. Unless it was this morning where he was more than calm and caring. Either way Ollie didn’t know if they still wanted him.

Eventually he mustered enough confidence to step inside, the apartment too quiet for what it should be.

Tito wasn’t facing Ollie when he walked in so the boy just walked over slowly before sitting on the ground just far enough that if Tito didn’t want him to touch him then he wouldn’t be.

“Cuddle pile?” Ollie asked softly and cautious preparing for a no.

@shockingly-tito

[melody-the-unwritten]

Bright & Early Hangovers {Melody & Tito}

Melody should have probably adopted an older dog. As much as she loved Reggie already she couldn’t take him out for her runs in the morning. She couldn’t wait until he could join her.

If not only because of the company but also the fact she could have that backup and friendship she needed so early in the morning without actually having to talk to someone.

But that’s also why she ran first thing in the morning. She didn’t expect to run into many people.

Melody didn’t always get so lucky.

But he looked lost and well Melody felt bad.

“Tito right? Do you need help?”

@shockingly-tito​

[swynlake-spill]

Can confirm. Slipped right into those dm’s. Weddings in December 😘

hello, also this was in my inbox (tito appearing to confirm his and gregory’s loooooove connection) sorry for posting it late i was trying to think of something funny to say and then realized this message did all my work for me 

#Gregorito anybody? 

(Gregory, personally, I think u can do better!!) 

[titoist]

do you happen to know any films that actually have a focus on the serbian national psyche's relation to yugonostalgia? i am open to anything but if its borderline incomprehensible to nonserbs thats perfect. thanks!

unfortunately, i am completely out of touch with the serbian cultural zeitgeist - mostly because the wide majority of modern serbian media is complete trite, masturbatory nationalism or equally-masturbatory reality tv - and am, for for all intents and purposes, an inner immigrant. &, thus, am absolutely *not* an authority on this. though i'm sure some underground films exist, the national mien would generally just not be accommodating to that type of work. i would defer to my pal @vetulicolia, since she might know of some ex-yugo film along those lines that i don't. every day i pound and scream because the "2 hour black and white film about the serbian government shown through the eyes of a pigeon" thing isn't a real film. but i do have a few recommendations for movies that were made *during* the existence of yugoslavia, which i find to be somewhat prescient, & which still hold up shockingly well. among them would be Balkanski Spijun(The Balkan Spy), Davitelj Protiv Davitelja(Strangler VS. Strangler), & Varljivo Leto '68(The Elusive Summer of '68). of course, Ko To Tamo Peva is a classic & the most popular among them, but is not particularly relevant. Tito i Ja might be fun if you can find it, also. though hunting down english subtitles for all of those might be... a tad hard....

[postalenha]

Board exam anon from before !! c00vid legit put my future in a precarious place online classes are not working for me I've lost my attention span bc of social media I'm back to obsession over kpop and cdramas to find some sort of relief from the stress and I just think it's so unfair that we're expected to perform the very best and be cheerful and motivated when the economy and the world is in shambles and you're from a third world country where getting good grades is crucial to get into a good reputable uni / job . Shockingly my teachers warned that our board exams are gonna be harder bc the institution that conducts the exam (idk how to explain help) wants to bring back their reputation ( bc last year's exam was cancelled and students instead passed with individual schools results instead of the boards) . Like,,, it's so obviously just a business that has never truly cared for students .... Just to make them machines for generating wealth :D.....

Now can I please seduce jay and become his sugar baby /j

YES OH MY GOD!! i'm guessing you're already a college student?? god i can't even imagine trying to study a course in the middle of this shit show of a pandemic. my cousin actually stopped, should already be in third year college now- reason being she won't be able to study nursing ONLINE. and i totally get her, because imagine having someone's life on your hand and you won't be able to know what to do because you just learned it online and only have demonstrated on teddies. is education a joke now???

and i totally agree with the attention span thing 😭 i spend most of my time using my phone to the point that i forget to do all my tasks and assignments. my time management is shit too, i don't even know what to do with my life.

"just to make them machines for generating wealth." LOUDER!! god i can't even remember how many times my titos and titas (aunts and uncles) and my parents have told me, "make sure you graduate so you'll find a nice job that pays well" WHY DID WE EVEN LIVE TO SUFFER@&?@^**!? WHAT IF I WANTED TO STUDY ART AND NOT ACCOUNTANCY

[notmuchofatail]

Gifts From Greg!

@rydinger-tony​​

For Tony:

Happy Christmas Tony! I hope you have a really great holiday with Ian & Eilonwy!

Dropped with the card were: 

Jammy Dodgers

A lil pocket needle-felted Frito that Greg made him

For Ian:

@ianthedisastrous​​

Happy Holidays & Merry Christmas Ian! Thank you for everything you’ve been doing at the shop! I really appreciate it! You’re amazing! Happy Christmas to you and your family!

Enclosed in the card is a  £75 Christmas Bonus & homemade cookies 

As well as some Journaling inspo

For Tito:

@shockingly-tito​​

Happy Christmas, Tito. I hope you and your family have a really great Holiday. Hopefully we can do something again soon :) Maybe Ice Skating? I don’t know how to, but... I don’t think you do either and.. it’s a little more adventurous (just not jumping off the roof-level). 

For all Ruff to Fluff Employees (assuming these are my employees I don’t KNOW anymore):

@lostinthewoods-kristoff​​ @alwcys-with-you​​ @ianthedisastrous​​ (but you already got yours with a different card)

Happy Holidays! Thank you all so much for being the best employees during such a ‘ruff’ year. I hope you all have a very safe and happy holiday! 

[ enclosed in the card is a  £75 Christmas bonus & some homemade cookies ] 

For the Breakfast club - As promised a long time ago, little Needle-felt versions of their characters with the colors/hats they typically would wear. As a joke, Ian also got the dead version of his character.

@ianthedisastrous​​ @rydinger-tony​​ @moon-yeongtae​​ @ashlee-inperfection​​ @justkeepdancing-nemo​​

For the Dog-Owners:

His close friends with dogs got a custom doggie-danna with their pup’s names on it in the colors/styles he thinks fit them as well as a bag of homemade pup-treats! 

@rydinger-tony​​​ @ianthedisastrous​​ @shockingly-tito​​ @exsqueak-me​​ @singingonthese-streetsofgold​​ 

[olaf-likeswarmhugs]

Shocking, isn’t it? | Otito

So, as far as Olaf understood it, Swynlake had created a temporary alternate reality, transforming the town into an island port in the early 18th century during the height of the piracy era. Everyone had gotten temporary identities! No death stuck and no harm was done! 

That was all very interesting and Olaf thought he was probably a big fan of this kind of mighty display of magic--it was like a town-wide team-building exercise! 

So...why wasn’t he included? 

See, he hadn’t gotten a temporary identity. He woke up on the Queen Clarion’s Revenge as his same old Olaf, with no idea what everyone was talking about. Maybe it was a fluke, Sindri said, but it got Olaf thinking about Tito, the electrician he met on the street, who apparently shocked him. That’s at least what he claimed. 

What do you mean, yous didnt feel anything? 

And so it was time to experiment.

Olaf called Tito up, reporting an electricity issue with his microwave (which Olaf caused by...unplugging it) and soon there was a knock on the door. He opened up and grinned. “Hello! Right on time!” 

@shockingly-tito​

[frostskader]

Gifts From Peri!

To All of Pixie’s Staff + Greg ( @notmuchofatail​ )(any dietary restrictions are taken into consideration)

@tink-bell​

@sweetheart-minnie​

@alana-the-badbitch​ (Dietary restrictions considered for the snacks)

@streetsavoir-faire

(there’s also a small heart charm attached on the inside of the bracelet)

@shockingly-tito​ @oliversaluki

[singingonthese-streetsofgold]

Rita’s Presents

Roscoe: ( @roscoesykes​ )

This year for Christmas, Roscoe received a plethora of new pins that Rita had seen throughout the year and thought of Roscoe. Yes, it’s one of the staple gifts she gets him because she knows how much he loves his jacket pins.

In addition he got:

A new rosary because she knows he prays a lot and she saw this and thought he’d like it because it’s also #tough looking.

From Mason:

A bracelet with Mason, Ollie, Rita, and his name on it so he always has his family close.

A personal lamp that features their wedding kiss from their wedding in Italy before Mason was born.

Ollie ( @oliversaluki​ )

A personalized camera case to go with....

A brand new camera with all the attached gadgets and...

Mason: 

An elephant onesie for mommy’s baby elephant.

A lot of new outfits so he can be the fly small fry he is. And more toys than I can legally post on tumblr. We’re talking a SHIT TON of tons.

Dodger: ( @streetsavoir-faire​ )

Probably more for Peri but it’s fine. Definitely has a little card attached that reads:

Do your part. Keep your boys clean for the good of everyone.

xx Rita

He also gets a gift certificate for Sunburst

Tito: ( @shockingly-tito​ )

Totally given as a joke with a note with instructions on how to find his real gift.

Einstein and Fagin:

This lovely gift basket with tons of food in it, as well as multiple gift certificates for the businesses of Swynlake, and a coupon book that allows them an entire year worth of favors and date nights to be used whenever their sons have to obey it.

Greg and Aubrey: ( @notmuchofatail​ )

An assortment of baked goods (all vegan of course)

A little gift box for Tucker. As well as a little something for the rescues at Ruff to Fluff. And also lots of homemade treats for Evie

[roscoesykes]

Roscoe’s Gifts

For Oliver:

@oliversaluki

Apparently these things are like... as close to an actual pet as you can get. So it’s basically your pet for when yous away from home. Careful I hear theys can be real fuckin’ dumb at first and’ll try and jump off your desk. 

For Mason: 

(Couldn’t resist that one it matches his NY-themed room okay) 

For Rita: 

@singingonthese-streetsofgold

More of those chunky knit blankets that she loves so much

A new journal for her music 

A music box that has their vows engraved on the inside & plays their wedding song. 

Also a date-night mason jar that’s filled with chocolate as well as with gift cards to local restaurants & places (Remy’s, Hatters, Sunburst, etc) for days when they need a break with just each other. 

She also gets other gifts but... I’ll talk to you about those personally since they’re.... adult ;)

For DeSoto:

NOTHING YOU SUCK. 

Just kidding - he got his bro a new pin for his jacket (he knows he’s not as big on them but it’s something subtle), a gift card to Sunburst, A new knife engraved with skulls & their family crest, a few bottles of whiskey & their dad’s old brass knuckles that he’s been holding on to for way too many years. 

For Claude

@hellfire-damnation​

Maybe you can use this to find your head from your ass. 

For Tito, Dodger, Toulouse. (Tito’s and Dodger’s were signed by him, no shame. Toulouse’s obviously were not, but he felt compelled to spread the holiday cheer.)

@shockingly-tito @streetsavoir-faire @lou-bonfightme​

For Vinny & Duchess: He poured out an expensive bottle of Scotch for Vinny and a good Wine for Dutch & prayed for them - telling them he still misses them and that he’s sorry for what happened. 

[swynlake-spill]

Yo let’s shout out Greg, lachlann, Dodger, Ollie. the Jones household, uh.... The Court and Rita. Still fuck u Roscoe. Oh! And Tiana cuz that Thanksgiving dinner was the shit

Oh my, lots of love from today’s founder of the #SM tag. (That’s Soulmate, not sadomasochism, despite popular belief smh)

@notmuchofatail, we’re still thinking about you!

@lachlann-macnab, hope ur driving safe !! 

@streetsavoir-faire, i would still eat you like a hot cake! 

@oliversaluki, how’s it going! 

(who the ef r the jones?)

@singingonthese-streetsofgold, i think you’re amazing ! 

@almosttiana, you’re one of my fave people!! 

Oh, and of course, fuck you Roscoe, from the bottom of Tito’s heart. 

[jashasedai]

Lonely and Unfulfilled- AU Tame Racing Drivers

I keep telling people that you’ve got to write what you WANT to write, if you’re feeling blocked.

In that vein, here is another Colin-Edwards-Is-Dad-Shaped story that no one asked for.  (Dad shaped, not dad-bod)

Lonely and Unfulfilled

Alternate Universe- Tame Racing Drivers

Fandom- MotoGP

In an AU where a secret species is used as Racing Drivers, confinement and boredom are a way of life.  The only relief has traditionally been to race.

Tito is one of Colin’s special students- the Racing Riders who are deaf to telepathy.  As a young teenager, Tito struggles with the life choices that are set before him.

Tags: MotoGP, Colin Edwards, Tito Rabat’s Racing Rider, AU Tame Racing Drivers, Alternate Universe

Lonely and Unfulfilled

World Motorcycle Center- 2004

Colin was flopped back on the couch, flicking through the pages of a magazine.  The door to his stall opened.  It wasn’t Rasoio, Valentino, or any of the little foals.

It was Tito.

He hadn’t seen Tito, except in passing, since he’d left for the matchable wing.  He was standing, in his silver toned grey leathers, and his silver helmet hanging against his chest.  He pinched his gloved hands together.  He didn’t look up.

Colin revved, “Are you alright, little one?”

Tito washed his hands over each other and shrugged.

“Come over here and tell me about it.”  Colin folded the magazine and set it on the floor beside the couch.

The fourteen year old hesitated, and then came over and knelt on the couch.  He put his arms out, like he was going for a hug and then stopped.  He turned his head to the side, and unstrapped his helmet.  His turning made Colin sure he wasn’t going to try to match, but he looked at the other wall while Tito took his helmet off.  Then Tito buried his face against Colin’s chest.  Colin put his arm around the colt’s back and felt the shuddering rolling through his body.

There was no sound, but Colin had held Rasoio enough to know silent crying when he felt it.

He leaned his cheek on Tito’s hair and began a gentle rocking.  “Can’t talk about it, huh?  That’s okay.  You just feel it.”  He revved a soothing, humming song.  “I’m here to feel it with you.”

Tito wrapped his fingertips around Colin’s shirt, squeezing and moving with the rocking motion.

He gestured something, but his hands where pressed between his own chest and Colin’s ribs, and Colin couldn’t begin to understand it.  It was plain enough that he was distressed.

They rocked for a long time, while Tito’s grief moved from silent shaking to quiet sobs completed by little gasping breaths, and then some hissing inhales, and then he quieted.  They rocked in silence, until Colin sensed that the colt was ready to be still.

They sat in stillness.

“I am so sorry you are unhappy,” Colin whispered.

Tito looked up at him.  They made brief, startling eye contact, but Tito’s emotion had been expended and he was in control of his faculties, and looked away without reaching for Colin’s mind.  His left hand reached out and twisted the strap on his helmet, keeping his eyes to the side, now.

[I have more,] Tito enhanced his signs with the sound language he had helped Battler, Colin, and Animal develop, [More in me, than I am allowed.  I am MORE than standing in a stall, waiting to ride.  It sounds arrogant to say, but I am more than this.  I am smart, I am determined, I could do more things, and be more value, if I was allowed to...LEARN.  I could figure out why the sky is blue, but sometimes grey.  I could understand why the stars are bright.  I could understand, and help others understand, but I am put to this WORK.  I am MORE.  More than riding.]

He hung his head.

Then his shoulders dropped in shame and he bit his lip.

[I am grateful, Stallion has given me this chance.  I will be a strong rider.]  He looked towards the false window in Colin’s wall.  [I could be more.  I feel sad that my herd will never benefit from what I could do.  I feel sad that I will never be allowed to have the satisfaction of learning.  Sad.  Sad.]

He sat back on his heels, and then slid his legs out from under him, sitting properly on the couch, angled towards Colin.

Colin nodded.  [You are SO smart, Tito.  You are good at analysing.  You...would be admirable at figuring things out.  I…]  He rested his hand on the colt’s shoulder.  It was a disgrace that this brilliant little person was going to live his entire life without reaching his potential.  [Riding is not the only thing.  What you can do is special, and is great value.  I am sorry you...struggle to find a place for it.  It is sad you are not allowed to use this tool.]  He hugged Tito.  Then he leaned back, hands on the teenager’s biceps.  [Maybe there is?  Ratchet finds strange places for Trainers, who learn…] Colin wasn’t totally clear on what the differences were, but he knew that what people like Casey did was somehow shockingly out of line with what most people thought a Teaching Trainer was, [Unusual skills.]

Tito’s eyes widened with a spark of hope, then it faded.  [I am not matched.]

Colin touched his hand.  He kept his eyes down, but he gestured.  [The chequered flag waves when the race is over.  Don’t stop before the last lap.]

Tito’s mouth dropped open.  [A BOY?  There is a boy for me??  You know?]

[Not supposed to tell you that,] Colin half smiled, [I will tell you that many races are won at the last corner.  I know a skill you have is bravery.  True?]

Now his big mouth was spread in a wide grin.  [I am brave!  I wait.  I will have a match, and…] He made a calculating expression, [He is like me?  He will help me understand things?]

[Who can know?] Colin smiled.

Tito laughed and hugged him.  [What should I do to ready myself for him?]

Colin leaned forward.  [I know some boys like books, and maybe...thinking about the moon and stars.]

[Like ME?!]

He hugged Colin again.

Colin smiled and held him tight.  When the colt had put on his helmet and gone back to his wing, Colin turned on his laptop.  He found a series of astronomy discovery books, and a small, portable, high quality telescope, and marked it for delivery to Esteve Rabat.

[cody-gakpo-archive]

Some of y'all seem to be really like shockingly good at forgetting how close Leo and Tito were and everything Leo did and said for Tito

[creativitytoexplore]

Announcing the 2020 Winners of the Insider Prize https://ift.tt/2DNkREu

For the last three years, American Short Fiction has sponsored a contest for incarcerated writers in Texas. A group of writers at the Connally Unit, in Kenedy, Texas, came up with the name: The Insider Prize. Each year we get dozens of essays and short stories from men and women in prisons and jails across the state, some handwritten and others produced on typewriters. They tell stories about their lives before prison, about the conditions inside, and about the many places their imaginations take them.

This year’s award is marked, like so much in our world these days, by tragedy.

Back in April, as we prepared to share the good news with the winners and finalists, we learned that finalist Timothy Bazrowx had died at a prison hospital after testing positive for COVID-19. He was 63. As the virus continues to rip through shockingly ill-prepared prisons and jails, the men and women inside remain especially vulnerable. Bazrowx knew this—he wrote to one correspondent that in prison, “sickness runs like a crazy horse through a flower bed.”

Through three books and countless shorter pieces, Bazrowx had cultivated an incisive, vivid, and frequently hilarious style, which he didn’t abandon even as his home became a deathtrap. As the virus spread in his prison, officers threatened to punish his peers for going shirtless in a common area. “The world is dying and these bastards want us to be fully dressed to see it happen,” he wrote. “Geewiz.”

It is with his unique spirit, of smiling while speaking truth to power, of finding joy in the face of horrors both natural and manmade, that we present this year’s winners, along with Bazrowx’s own submission.

The winners were selected by guest judge Justin Torres, whose award-winning 2011 novel We the Animalshas proven popular among writers behind bars.

In the fiction category, Torres selected “That Place on Daniel Island” by F.R. Martinez. Martinez also won in the fiction category last year, when Joyce Carol Oates selected his story “Mother’s Son.” This new piece is told entirely in dialogue, and Torres wrote that it “feels so alive, to not just the syntax and rhythms of everyday speech, but also to the very need for dialogue itself. Talking is a way to both dig up trouble, and put it to rest. The two characters are talking from two very different sides of a shared experiences—marriage, incarceration—and the effect is quite moving.”

In the memoir category, Torres selected “The Promise” by Steven Perez. “What I loved most about this piece,” Torres wrote, is “that the story moves beyond the narrative of the gruesome attack that serves as the inciting incident to raise important questions about witnessing, responsibility, codes of conduct, failed guardianship—all the systemic issues that foster and allow for prison violence. It is tremendously well written.”

The memoir runner-up this year was “My Time Paradox,” by Jacob Jills, which Torres called a “real achievement in prose style” that “provoked an eerie claustrophobic feeling while reading.” The fiction runner-up this year was “Classic Rock,” by John Rodgers, which Torres called “troubling, funny, and hazed with a kind of dreamlike nostalgia.”

We hope you enjoy this year’s winners.

—Maurice Chammah & Emily Chammah

  So I said to her ‘Let’s go to that place over on Daniel Island where we used to go.’ And she said ‘What place?’ I said ‘You know, that place that was kinda like a beach bar or something.’ ‘Beach bar? I don’t know what you’re talking about. You mean the bagel place? The one that had the everything bagels?’ ‘No, no. Well— is that still there? We used to go there.’ ‘They only open for breakfast and lunch. Not dinner.’ So I said ‘I mean that place that had the jukebox with that Billy Joel song we like.’ ‘Juke box?’ ‘And there was a bar in the front, even though it was always half empty. They had good burgers.’ ‘You don’t mean the hotel? The restaurant in the hotel where we went with Nick and his wife before they broke up?’ ‘Damn. That must be like twenty years ago. No. Is that still there? I don’t even remember how to get there.’

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‘Well, I’ll drive.’ ‘I sure would like to go to the other place though. I used to think of it when I was down for some reason.’ ‘Really. Were the burgers THAT good?’ ‘No. I mean they were good but—I don’t know I just liked the place because it was so laid back, so peaceful, so—Charleston. I mean, I know there was no beach there on Daniel Island, but when I remembered that place it felt like there shoulda been one nearby, like right down the road or something. It’s hard to explain, but when you’re locked up a place like that just seems like heaven, you know? To be away from everything. . . ’ ‘There’s that other place on Daniel Island over there by where we used to live.’ ‘That’s right. I forgot we lived on the island for a few months when they were building our house.’ ‘Over there in the mall, where the Ross was,’ she said. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘That’s gone now. It’s been gone for like–I don’t know—ten years?’ ‘Ten years—’ ‘You were gone a long time.’ ‘Yeah. I barely recognized that part over there when we come into our neighborhood off the highway. That used to be a Piggly Wiggly over there.’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘What happened to the Blimpie’s?’ ‘That’s gone. Been gone.’ ‘I was down a long time, but I bet that place on Daniel Island is still there. Maybe with a different name and a different owner.’ ‘Maybe. But don’t have to go there. There’s lots of new places. There’s one by Folly Beach. I’ve gone there with Tina and Rosemary.’ ‘Rosemary?’ ‘Yeah. She used to work with me at Bosch, remember? She retired before I did.’ ‘I didn’t think you were friends with people from Bosch, I mean except for Dennis.’ ‘Dennis died two or three years ago. I don’t remember exactly when. You know how memory is. I didn’t go to the funeral. It was too sad.’ ‘I remember you told me he died. . . on the phone.’ ‘You’ve been gone a long time, baby.’ ‘I feel like Rip Van Winkle. I used to hear people in prison talk about their lives outside. I’m talking about people with fifteen and twenty year sentences. They had a long way to go, and they’d just started. I used to wanna say to them: listen, forget that life, man. It’s over. But I did it too, talked about my life, you know, with you and the kids here. But that was at first. After a couple of years, I stopped that. I didn’t talk to anybody. What for? People left. Or they got transferred to other prisons. Or they died. What was the use of trying to make friends, to get close to anybody.’ ‘You used to talk to me on the phone about your ‘friends.’’ ‘That was nothing. Just people I met. People to hang out and bullshit with, people to bitch about the conditions and whatever was going on. There’s no real friendship in there. The place is like a bus station, or an airport. Anyway, it’s illegal to contact other ‘felons.’’ ‘Is that what you are now? A felon?’ ‘No. I’m still me. I’m still the same guy you married.’ ‘No. You’ve changed.’ ‘You’ve changed, too. I mean, c’mon, thirteen years. I swear. I thought I was gonna die in there. I had one celli who was a psycho, another one was a drug addict, another one almost killed me with B.O. Another was a pest, always begging for attention, bugging me with his problems. And then you had that stroke. I thought you were gonna die. The kids wouldn’t answer their phones.’ ‘I know. That must’ve been terrible.’ ‘More terrible than you think. I thought I’d have nobody left when I got out, you know? And then I used to think you didn’t forgive me—for what I did.’ ‘I was angry. I still am. You fucked up our lives.’ ‘I think you need to put some of the blame for that on the wonderful government.’ ‘No. I put it on you. What you did was wrong.’ ‘Not thirteen years worth of wrong! For God’s sake! I didn’t kill anybody!’ ‘You should have known better.’ ‘How could I? It’s not like they tell people what kind of sentences they’re giving out.’ ‘You should’ve known. Somebody smart like you should’ve known. What you were doing. . . didn’t you ever think there were consequences?’ ‘Okay. Right. Whatever. I just felt like all of you just let me rot in there. That if I died no one would care. I mean sometimes it was months before I heard from any of you.’ ‘You think it was easy for us? Paying the bills, keeping things running, ignoring all the people that kept telling me I should divorce you, that you were no good. It was no picnic, all right?’ So I said to her ‘Okay. Well. . . can we go to that place on Daniel Island? It was nice there. I remember we used to drink Coronas under one of the umbrellas in the tables on the patio.’ She was quiet for a minute, and then she said ‘Oh! THAT place. The one with the patio furniture outside.’ ‘Yeah! That’s it!’ ‘It closed down. About six years ago.’

—

Cuban-born writer and composer F.R. Martinezimmigrated to the U.S. as a result of the Cuban Revolution. He grew up in Miami then moved to New York City to attend the Juilliard School where he studied with David Diamond and graduated with a Bachelor’s degree. He went on to compose music for film, television, radio, and theater. He is the recipient of two Emmys (in conjunction with the writing team at Children’s Television Workshop, currently Sesame Workshop), and a Grammy for the Sesame Street album Elmopalooza in 1998, on which his song “Mambo I, I, I” is performed by Gloria Estefan. He worked with several other notables such as Cindy Lauper, Celia Cruz, Tito Puente, Trini Lopez, and various Latino music stars of the late twentieth century. In 1998, along with writer Luis Santeiro, he was the recipient of the Richard Rodgers Award offered by the American Academy of Arts and Letters, for the musical Barrio Babies. He worked for Disney on the show “Handy Manny” as a composer, completing background music and songs for 100 shows. “Handy Manny” was also nominated for an Emmy in 2009. With the Charleston Symphony Orchestra he worked on various projects including one for Darius Rucker of Hootie and the Blowfish fame. He’s been creating poetry and fiction since the age of twelve and has only returned to a more serious involvement with writing in recent years. In 2016, his poem “300 Min” received an Honorable Mention from PEN America. In the past five years, he has completed over a hundred poems and five novels as well as a number of short stories. He is looking to publish more fiction and poetry and would be grateful for sample copies of literary journals and submission guidelines. For his mailing address please contact insiderprize[at]americanshortfiction.org.

  Two days ago, ATX, a five-foot-two pallid hispanic prisoner on our cell block in his mid- to late-twenties, got his throat slit with a razor from ear to ear. I was at the law library when it happened. I came back, and the officers were locking us all up in our cells while three prisoner janitors mopped blood off the floor. The bright sun and the smell of fresh air seemed miles behind me.

ATX had had a fistfight in the dayroom with Bubba, a fifty-sevenish bald-headed five-foot-seven clean shaven black man with another thirty years in prison, before I left to the law library. I caught the end of that fight when I came back to the cell block after lunch.

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Seeing Bubba exchange punches with ATX puzzled me because since I had moved in to the cell block two weeks before, Bubba had been polite, helpful, and respectable. He would life coach some of the men on the cell block. He was also an expert tailor. He had recently hemmed up my visitation pants. And I had been helping him identify some legal problems he had with his conviction. He complained about misidentification. I had written down some case citations for him so he could look into them.

ATX had only been on the cell block for about four days, but he too had been laid back and respectable. He and Bobby, who lived two cells down from ATX, had been exchanging ideas about God and the Bible.

The hispanic and black gang members in the dayroom (Tango Blast, Bloods, and Crips) were unsettled. There’s an unwritten G-Code on this building that the youngsters do not fight with older prisoners. ATX was violating that code. Bubba and ATX had had some kind of falling out in line in the chow hall. Bubba had accidentally bumped into ATX. ATX said, “You must think I’m some kinda ho!”

Bubba’s from the old school. He spent years in lockup for killing one of his cell mates. He couldn’t overlook ATX’s hostility.

ATX said, “If you fucked up about it, we can get under the TV and get that.” So they fought under the  TV, and ATX got a good hit in and busted Bubba’s lip. After the fight, ATX kept bringing the issue up to other men on the cell block out loud. In doing so, he kept the fire burning. For the next three hours, Bubba told the men he wanted to cut ATX.

Those men tried over and over to talk Bubba out of it. Bubba wouldn’t listen. His mind was set. To make matters worse, with Bubba’s old school penitentiary mentality comes the idea that once you say you’re gonna do something , it’s like making  a promise. And you gotta follow through with it. You gotta keep your word. Even if it doesn’t make any sense. Even on some shit like this. Never mind the fact that Bubba’s sister was talking to him about hiring a parole lawyer for him. That’s the old school penitentiary mentality. That’s what this system does to you.

Twenty years in prison is enough for a man to learn his lesson. Anything after that pushes you to the limit. The point of no return. If you’re not strong enough mentally, physically, and emotionally, the system turns you into a fully programmed machine. Bubba had reached that point.

These days, no one expects you to keep that kind of promise. Instead, they try to talk you out of it. The younger generation of experienced prisoners have to counsel the older, more experienced, more traumatized lifers. We have to carry the burden of trying to talk these men out of keeping those kinds of promises.

My neighbor Rudy was sitting next to ATX on the bench. Rudy told ATX, “Watch out because that old school’s gonna try to shank you.” ATX didn’t listen. He fell asleep on the bench while sitting down in front of the TV in the dayroom. Bubba snuck up behind ATX and slit his throat ear to ear.

ATX stood up and started walking around the dayroom talking shit. “I’m ready to die in here!” Blood leaked out of his neck and soaked into his white T-shirt. The gash on his Adam’s apple was wide enough and deep enough to stick the tip of your pinky into all the way past your pinky nail. “Somebody give me a blade!” No one did.

Yesterday, after Rudy and I finished working out, we got into a conversation under the stairs of the cell block about what happened. Me, Rudy, and Bobby. Rudy stands six-foot-one. He’s lanky, but physically fit. A hispanic thug out of San Antonio who recently told me that he used to inject into his veins a half an ounce of meth every day before he came to prison. He’s thirty years old. He has the San Antonio Spur emblem in the middle of his chest with Aztec Indian art all over the rest of his upper back. He will discharge a four-year sentence in eight months, and he complains that his lawyer fucked him over. His modus operandi is car theft rings.

Bobby is a five-foot-three white boy in his early forties with the body of a middleweight weight lifter. He’s got fifteen years in on a ninety-nine-year sentence for bank robbery. His brother-in-law testified against him at his trial. He’s a recent revert to Christianity and a recovering alcoholic with salt and pepper hair. His sister and two of his nieces were shot and killed in the mass church shooting at the baptist church in Sutherland Springs, Texas, in 2017. His nephew was shot five times and lived. Another niece looked into the eyes of the killer and lived without a single gunshot wound. He told me yesterday that when his sister and the kids got shot, his sister covered his nieces with her body to protect them. He said, “She tried to cover their mouths so they wouldn’t make any noise. My sister was bigger than me. She wasn’t huge, but she was big boned.”

Me, I’m forty-one years old. Chicano brown skin. Thirteen years in on a sixty-year sentence with a murder conviction under the law of parties.

Rudy was sitting on the bottom flight of the stairs. He said he saw Bubba coming. He got up from the bench and shied away. He said, “I got up and left.” He cracked a slight smile. He had a shadow of guilt in his eyes. He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders.

Bobby’s lips took the shape of a seagull in the distant sky back home in Corpus Christi, at the beach on North Padre Island. I saw parentheses at each end of his lips. His eyelids formed a straight line and almost halfway shut. His eyebrows curved up toward each other. He looked at Rudy with disappointment. Bobby said, ‘How would you like it if I got up and left you there to get your throat slit?”

Rudy said, “I told him to watch out. And what did he do? He went to sleep. Shit, Old School could’ve cut me! If I’d have got in, it would’ve started all kinds of shit. He shouldn’t have been fighting with that old school. And he should’ve listened to me when I warned him.”

I said, “He should’ve stayed in the cell. He was already in there. He shouldn’t have come back out.”

Bobby said, “I thought about trying to make peace between them. We all ate on the same table at chow. But Bubba was already with that mindset. He probably would have come after me. You saw the way he got after his own people for trying to get involved. I could’ve said something or tried to do something to prevent it.” He told us that Bubba had big-faced ATX in the chow hall. He concluded that he and Rudy had cowered by not intervening.

Unsure of what to say, I took a deep breath and rubbed my head. I looked down at my brown skin; at my threadbare tennis shoes; at the snake and dragon wrapped around my leg that I paid a thousand dollars for twenty years ago during the cocaine-dealing chapter of my life, at Axis Tattoo shop, in downtown Corpus Christi across from the Greyhound bus station, before U.S. District Judge Janice Graham Jack sent me to federal prison, where I lost my wife Iris to cocaine, meth, Xanax, and other men. I can still hear her in 2001, eighteen years ago, behind limo tint, singing to me in the passenger seat of the red Grand Am I bought her while I drove through palm trees past the million-dollar mansions on Ocean Drive on the way to our house with the sparkling salt water bay to our left. Serenity, our then one-year-old baby girl, our pageant prize and trophy winner, sat in the middle of the back seat in her car sucking on the nipple of an empty Enfamil bottle. I can still see Serenity’s long eyelashes curling up and her black button eyes, blinking. I can feel Iris’s smooth milky skin at my fingertips; her long reddish brown hair in between my fingers. I can still hear her sober million-dollar voice in my head. The only woman who’s ever called me handsome. “How will I live without you?” The song from Con Air. Her voice echoes in my memories. I remember thinking, My life is complete.

Bobby said, “We’re supposed to stop things like that from happening.”

Rudy said, “Fuck that!”

I said, “We gotta be prudent in what we do. It’s like being in a war. We gotta get out of here alive.”

Later on, I reflected on the conversation. I thought, It’s like a war in many respects. But not all. ATX was not a fellow soldier. We didn’t even know him. And he violated too many prison principles. But does that make him less human? Does that make him deserving of death? We gotta make sure that we get out of here alive. That’s a duty we owe our families and ourselves. If you were there, what would you have done? And don’t tell me you’d have told the officers. You don’t do that in prison. If you do, then you might be the one getting your throat slit. Besides, the officers want us to kill each other. Not all of them are like that, but it always seems like the worst ones are around at the worst times. They won’t do anything for us until the deed is done. Then they’ll throw it in our faces as if we proved them right.

Weeks later while I sat in my cell thinking about how to end this story, I thought about promises. How promises are so easily broken. I remembered being in federal prison and promising myself that I’d never come back to prison. I was released. Yet here I sit. I write. Some promises you just don’t keep.

—

Steven Reynaldo Perezwas born in Corpus Christi, Texas, on July 5, 1978. He is a member of the Pen City Writers inside team at the John B. Connally state prison in Kenedy, Texas, which was established and is led and taught by author Deb Olin Unferth of the University of Texas at Austin. Steven is a self-taught paralegal; a staunch prisoner advocate against unlawful convictions and sentences and mass incarceration; and an avid defender of prisoner rights. In 2019, he earned a creative writing fellowship from the U.T. Austin English Department. He is in his 14th year of a 60-year sentence.

  Back in the age of the dinosaurs, which most consider around 1964:

My family and I lived in a small town called China, Texas. We had a huge rice farm/ranch operation with an average cattle count of fifteen-hundred head. We also had our cow horses (around twenty) and two Shetland ponies.

I was, at the time, around eight years old. My brother was eleven months younger than myself.

In my family, there were six kids, and at this time of year, in the dog-days of summer, us kids were not in school and pretty much had to make our own adventures manifest.

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Mom had a new baby, another girl, and now there were four of them, with just the two boys, so the girls pretty much stayed in the house playing with Barbie dolls that had broken knees, for I couldn’t figure out how they worked. So, to make a long story short, my brother and I were pretty much exiled to the outside of the house to keep the peace. Besides, mom breast-fed, and we certainly didn’t want to see that; it was better this way because we got to play with our many dogs, and we killed water moccasins, which were in abundance because of the small rice field we had by the house. So my brother and I were guards of the ole homestead, terrors incarnate in the bodies of two rambunctious small boys.n other words, we were normal, mischievously under-supervised little boys doing what we considered fun.

My stepfather worked the big fields, and we had some chores that took place mainly if we were being watched closely, or if it had to do with our horses. We liked our horses.

We liked going out into the next pasture. Our house was surrounded on three sides with pastures, and rice fields.

The horses, or most of them, liked it when we went there. A couple of them always got special treatment. Blaze was my regular riding horse. A standard quarter horse mare with a white face and white socks, roan in color, a lustrous red, she knew that when she saw me, she was in for a good curry-combin’ and brushing, along with the sugar cubes that we gave those horses that would come to us.

Most were on to us. We went in the pasture with an empty bucket making them think we had sweet oats for them. When they got fooled a few times, only the sugar-addicted horses would stay for their rewards of sugar cubes, and yes, sweet oats, for my brother and I liked playing tricks on the horses. We only wanted to curry-comb the horses that liked us.

Of course, we made sure the water trough was filled. Playing with water in the hot summer days was fine with us, and when we got wet, who cared? That was our job.

Now the bigger horses were fun to mess with, but it was rare that we could saddle or ride one of the cow ponies without the help of our stepfather. Even though we rode them a lot, they weren’t kid horses, and when the saddles came out, it was work time for them, and they knew this. We did ride bareback at times, but this story isn’t about that.

We had two Shetland ponies, which this story is about, for they were the kid horses. They were for the girls, but we rode them more than anyone.

SugarBee was one of the most genial of creatures, and very tolerant of us. We liked her, she never tried to bite us. She liked sugar cubes, and to be combed as well as saddled and rode.

I don’t know where she came from, but she was such a sweetheart that even with two miscreants around her, her disposition rubbed off on us, and we always gave her special attention.

Frisky, though, was another matter. Frisky was an un-castrated cattle stud with a painted hide. He could have almost been an Indian Pony had his legs been longer. What he didn’t have in height, he had in malignity.

He would bite, he would kick, and step on feet with sharp little hooves as well as buck you off. . .if you could get on him that is. He was won by our neighbor during a raffle at a Catholic church fundraiser. When our neighbor came over to our place and just gave this critter to us to be rid of it, we knew that there had to be a good reason. I had to ear-hustle his conversation with my stepfather.

The neighbor was explaining how mean this pony was. He was also telling him that this horse didn’t like the sulky wagon, which basically is a seat with two wheels in it. You see harness racing with these wagons.

It seems Frisky waited for our neighbor to hook up this wagon, then, after he got in, the pony went into “stupid-gear” when the reins were snapped over his back. Frisky went to kicking, and bucking as well as snapping like a mad Chihuahua, then kicking the buggy until the neighbor fell off. The pony then kicked the light-weight wagon over his head, then backed out of the harness. He ran down old Highway 90, causing a cussing, winded foot race with the neighbor. Frisky now became ours, and with rascally glee I ran to tell my brother the good news.

Time would go on, and the summer dragged on. We had got Frisky in the spring, and got him used to us. I even rode him bareback, and was bit a couple of times, as well as had my toe stepped on, but he would come to us readily enough.

We kept these horses in the small field with the horse barn that had hundreds of mesquite and Chinaberry trees — which by the way, is where China, Texas gets its name.

One morning before it got too hot, my brother and I, like each day during the summer, were off and running full tilt into our shenanigans.

Being met at our front door by our mismatched pack of dogs (somewhere around fifteen  of them) we headed off to the horse field.

Dogs were running all around, chasing rabbits, and finding snakes and killing them. My brother and I were just accepted members of the pack.

We went into the horse pasture, grabbed the bucket, and were able to get SugarBee to us, then Blaze, but the others weren’t falling for these two human pups’ tricks. It made us no difference, because we were just out and about trying to stay away from the stupid girls that always wanted to dress us up in dresses. No sir, we was off and running because both my brother and I knew to get caught by that female horde might mean my other ear was getting a needle driven through it. It was safer out with the snakes, nutria rats, gators, horses, and such.

When we had finished messing with SugarBee and Blaze, we saw Frisky wandering slowly toward us. I had a couple of sugar cubes left, so when he got to us we were able to comb him, which he liked, and he smelled the sweet oak bucket, but we hadn’t gotten that far yet.

Now horses aren’t known for their proper etiquette, so while we were treating this mean little fart with kindness, he of all things decided to pee on us. He just flowed the ole whiz-wand out and peed like a racehorse on us, causing it to splash all over both my and my brother’s feet and legs.

“Oh no you didn’t!”

Yes he did, and now my brother and I backed away from the flash flood this guy caused.

Oh yeah, the horns came out on both my brother’s and my head. In fields like this what we called crawdad holes were everywhere. Small towers of hard mud-balls that crayfish have erected were everywhere, and ready ammo for two pissed off, and pissed on, boys.

We, of course, started throwing these things at the pony. I know it was wrong, but being seven and eight years old in 1964, we didn’t care, for retribution was at hand.

The pony must have held all that water through the night just for us. He continued on while we threw small clods of mud at him surely aiming for the offending member.

What we didn’t see was that menacing look and evil, what looked like a smile I later remember seeing; which, come to think of it, looked more like a snarl.

With his ears laying back now, as we got closer to throw these mud clods, that little fart’s back feet started flying up. He kicked me in the arm, throwing me to the ground.

My brother was close to a barbed wire fence, and he got kicked over and over as he went under the fence. I jumped up, and found an old rotten stick, then whacked him, breaking the stick. He then started chasing me with blood in his eyes, kicking and snapping at my butt with those sharp horse teeth while I tried to find a faster gear to get in.

My brother chased after the horse, or Shetland pony, which is what he was. He grabbed the tail, getting another kick in the leg, while the horse spun around, I yelled for my brother to climb a Chinaberry tree that was close by. I also headed for our ethereal heaven.

This heathenish fiend saw both my brother and I was out of reach now, so he started cropping grass under the tree. My brother and I could just look at each other and laugh.

Oh no, it wasn’t over though. Each time the horse edged away, we would try to sneak down the tree, and Frisky would lay his ears back, then start bucking, and running back and forth under the tree, thus keeping us stranded up that Chinaberry tree for at least two hours, until he finally wandered away. We got down and ran out of the pasture. I wanted to get even with him for doing that to us, but he had got our attention.

We never threw dirt clods at him again, and we seemed to have some deep rooted respect for each other. I would ride him, and he would bite me, or step on my foot, and I’d push him off, limp a little, then get on. I kept a small switch handy.

We would leave a year or so later because Mom was looking for another life. She took us with her, but I’ll never forget when that wild pony ruled the day.

—

Timothy Bazrowx grew up in China, Texas, and his writing about life in prison and out was published by The Marshall Project, Prisons Foundation, and Uncaptive Voices. In April 2020, he died due to complications from COVID-19.

  About the Organizers & this Year’s Judge

Emily Chammah and Maurice Chammah are assistant editors at American Short Fiction and co-direct the Insider Prize. Emily is a Fulbright Fellow, and the winner of the PEN/Robert J. Dau Short Story Prize for Emerging Writers. Her fiction can be found in The Common. Maurice is a staff writer at The Marshall Project, where he reports on the U.S. criminal justice system. His first book, Let the Lord Sort Them: The Rise and Fall of the Death Penalty will be published by Crown Books in January.

Justin Torres has published short fiction in The New Yorker, Harper’s, Granta, Tin House, The Washington Post, Glimmer Train, Flaunt, and other publications, as well as non-fiction pieces in publications like The Guardian and The Advocate. A graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, Justin’s novel We the Animals has been translated into fifteen languages and was recently adapted into a film. It premiered at the Sundance Film Festival and was nominated for five Independent Spirit Awards. He was a Wallace Stegner Fellow at Stanford University, a fellow at the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard, and a Cullman Center Fellow at the New York Public Library. The National Book Foundation named him one of the 2012’s 5 under 35. He was the recipient of a grant from the National Endowment of the Arts, a Rolón Fellowship in Literature from United States Artists, and the VCU Cabell First Novelist Award. He lives in Los Angeles, where he is an Assistant Professor of English at UCLA.