Mark Me!

Taylor Mofford … Memories came roaring back. I’m standing in Mr. B’s room with tears and snot running towards my chin. The air stinks of stale cigarettes and strong rum. A lizard eases its way cunningly towards a spider that hangs from the crooked frame of a picture of Nelson Mandela. The bed is unmade. None of the boys have been barked at as yet to be slaves. On the mahogany table placed tastelessly in the center of the room are three of our greatest fears as boys of the twisted home: condoms, strong rum and a thick strap rumored to be soaked weekly in stale piss. The strong rum is mostly feared. (There are times you’d collect a strap over your back for no apparent reason other than Mr. B’s drunkenness.) The condoms are another story all by themselves. “I don’t care for a Nike or a Jordan Mr. B,” I am shouting. “I only care for a shoe that doesn’t have a tongue.” “Worthless pieces of shit don’t get the opportunity to choose what they want, John.” He turns to face me while spitting venom in my direction as he reaches for a pack of condoms and draws closer to me. “Your mother is a piece of shit. You’re a piece of shit, and I’m going to make sure you’re not forgetting that.” My breath catches in my throat for a second and I mentally decide not to give him the satisfaction he craves. I stand my ground not flinching….

excerpts from the book

WRITTEN: Poetry and Prose by Inmates of

His Majesty’s Prisons

St. Vincent & The Grenadines

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(Ed. Note: This is just a few paragraphs from this piece.)