Timothy James Burke was awarded Third Place in Fiction in the 2016 Prison Writing Contest. 

Dear Abel,

I almost had the worst day of my life. Carrie Fieder and her minions swarmed me in the cafeteria and emptied their clips. Told me how dumb, fat, and ugly I was. Told me what a leper I was. Made sure the world knew Brant Lanner was dating THE Caroline Nicole Fieder, daughter of the esteemed DOCTOR Fieder (the stem cell guy on NOVA), and that Mr. Lanner had no interest in dating a slug like me. Brant was there, watching. Our eyes met. He could have stood up for me or said we were discussing our English assignment, but he didn’t. He didn’t say a thing.

I felt like I was suffocating, the pressure of everyone’s attention crushing me. I elbowed my way through them and ran. No plan, I just needed to get away from that sadistic coven of self-righteous bimbos. The next thing I know I’m bawling my eyes out in the middle of the woods. I was so humiliated and disgusted with myself. Nothing hurts so much as the truth. And the truth is I AM fat, and I AM ugly, and even if I’m not stupid, I don’t know how to interact with people my own age, and that’s pretty dumb. I realized that as angry as I was with Brant, I was twice as angry with myself. I didn’t stand up for me, either. How could I be angry about the girls’ insults if I agreed with them?

I prayed right then, Abel, just like when we were kids. I clasped my hands and I told God I didn’t want to be like this. I didn’t want to be a person I didn’t respect, and I asked Him/Her to lead me in the way I should go. I didn’t have any expectations about what S/He might do, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to start reading my Bible again.

Right after I said “Amen” a big shadow crossed in front of me. I looked up and saw this huge white bird passing over like an airliner on approach to Logan. At first, I thought it was an angel. Dorky, huh? I figured it had to be landing soon, so I ran after it. Those woods are HUGE! I must have jogged ten minutes before I came to the marsh. Did you know it was there? A shallow lake with cattails and tall grass everywhere. Kind of beautiful. Sunny and peaceful. I can see why the bird liked it.

He was on the far side, knee-deep, walking slowly. Must have been four feet tall, all white, long, pointed yellow beak, legs like black straws. A crane, I think, so graceful and statuesque. All by himself, too. Nobody to impress. But I was impressed. I wanted what he had—his confidence and independence, his healthfulness and the clean simplicity of his life.

He probably thought I was a creep or a predator or something, staring at him like that. When I left, my shoes suck-sucking in the mud, he watched me. I’ll call him Angelo. Maybe God sent him to me.

Sorry I talked your ear off. I’m not this gabby unless I’m excited.

Sweet dreams.

Love,

Victoria

 

Hey Abel,

Mrs. Hatcher was cool about the books, gave me new ones without making me pay for them. She didn’t say anything about the incident yesterday, but she knew. Everybody knows. It’s gossip to numb the ache of their emptiness. That was the limit of her sympathy, though. She caught me passing a note to Brant, took it, and deposited it in the trash. I’m pretty sure Phoebe nabbed it after class, so now Carrie and Sora are wearing out their thumbs texting everyone in Massachusetts.

A few days ago I really wanted to be friends with them. Not BFFs or Brant’s girlfriend, just someone they would acknowledge and respect. That has changed. And it’s not all on them. What they did was cruel and immature, but in telling me how much they disliked me, they also helped me see how much I disliked myself. That’s a bitter pill to swallow, but good medicine.

If they hadn’t been so blunt and vicious I would have continued on without seeing myself clearly. Who knows how many years I’d have wasted, pretending to like the mask I wore and the coward hiding behind it. They’re not my friends, but they’re not my enemies, either. I know it’s weird, but I’m not mad at them. It’s not really their fault. They’re just cowards behind masks, too. Touché.

I’m going back to the marsh tomorrow. I looked up that bird in the library: it’s a Great Egret. Males and females look the same, so maybe Angelo is Angela.

Sweet dreams.

Victoria

Dear Abel,

Ho-hum day at school. At least people are getting over the cafeteria drama and they’re not gawking at me anymore. Remember I said I was going back to the marsh? I retraced my steps and went right to it. Angelo was wading on the near side today. I took off my shoes and snuck up behind some blueberry bushes where I could watch him. He looks so much smaller when he isn’t flying, but still regal. I can’t help admiring his slender neck, the fine point of his beak, the sleek lines of his body. He’s so beautiful! I was reminded of that verse in Matthew when he says God cares for the sparrows, and reminds us of the natural beauty in a field of wildflowers. How much more must He care for us? But look at what a mess I am, bro. I’m plagued with volcanic acne, my muscles are tender as veal, my social skills assure my place at the bottom of the totem pole, and my sense of style is just BAD. It’s not a money issue; I’ve got cash saved up from mowing the creepy pervert’s lawn. My problem is I can’t find the fashion train, let alone ride it. So I’m taking cues from my new mentor. I’m going to eat, dress, exercise, and socialize like he does. No, I’m not going to walk around naked, duh. I’ll figure something out. Enough for now.

Sweet dreams.

Love,

Victoria

Abel,

My legs are killing me! I ran to the marsh after school and accidentally spooked Angelo. Too excited, I guess. He ran with wings flapping and up he went. I was bummed about chasing him away, but seeing him take off was inspirational. I ran with my arms out like wings until my shoulders wore out. I ran all the way to JoAnn Fabrics and bought six yards of the most beautiful white fabric. Cost me a fortune, but the sales lady said it would make a great dress, clean easy, and wear well. Abel, I don’t know toots about sewing, but I know what I want and I’m determined to make it work. I showed Dad the fabric. He rubbed it between his fingers and said it was “good stuff.” He left some grease spots but they came out with dish soap. Thanks, sales lady! Mom’s on another late shift. I guess she’ll see the finished product. Love you!

Sweet dreams,

Victoria

Dear Abel,

Been a while. Here’s the update: mixed reactions to my dress. Lots of giggles and stares, but I expected that. Some compliments from guys I don’t even know. I later found out (by getting busted) I was giving free peeks at my boobs/bra. That explained the guys’ attention. I wore my coat the rest of the day. The Home Ec teacher showed me how to fix it and let me use a sewing machine after school. All better. I brought my long one in the next day and fixed it, too. I love running in the short one. I like having air cool on my skin and the feel of tall, wet grass whipping against my legs. When I’m really hauling ass, my headband (same material in a long, thin strip) lofts and flutters like flapping wings. I wish I could run that fast all the time. I’m just not in condition for it. But I’m getting better! You should see me go, bro. I ran for an hour last night, and I can run from the school to the marsh in about eight minutes. I’ve gone so often I’m wearing a path. Angelo is OK, but he seems so lonely. My psych teacher would call that projection. I just wish he had friends. Speaking of which, I think I have some? WEIRD. When I was trying so hard to make people like me I failed; now that I’m not, they do. There’s even a boy I think likes me but is too shy to say anything. Nice to feel wanted. The Angelo Plan is working, by the way. My acne has simmered down to an occasional outburst and I’ve lost enough blubber to start looking feminine. Even my hair is healthier, glossy and strong-looking. The perv guy I mow for gave me a compliment and I was surprised it didn’t come off as creepy. It was polite, like he was proud of me. Carrie, Sora, and Phoebe are still obsessed with whatever they THINK happened with me and Brant ages ago. I can’t figure out a way to change their minds, so I’ve stopped trying. Brant doesn’t talk to me anymore, but I get the feeling he’s keeping quiet to appease Carrie. I kind of feel bad for him; he’s stuck.

I guess that brings you up to date. I’ll write again soon.

Sweet dreams.

Love,

Victoria

Dear Abel,

Holy crap! MY PE teacher, Mr. Rine, pulled me aside today and asked if I’d like to run cross-country! He said he’d seen me running around town and thought I had the “raw, essential goods” to be competitive. The school will even provide my running shoes! Can you believe it? He did mention that Carrie and Sora were on the team, and he knew there had been some conflict. I told him I was way past that and he smiled. (Nice smile, too!) Training starts Monday. Dude, I’m going to EARN a varsity letter. Pinch me!

Sweet dreams,

Victoria

 

Abel,

I haven’t been running at all; I’ve been jogging. These girls are Olympians. They run a mile in five minutes, three miles in less than 17. I don’t even want to know my times. Coach Rine said not to worry: it’s not how fast I am, it’s how fast I want to be that matters, how hard I’m willing to work. I must be more willing than able (Ha!) because I’m about half dead. My legs hurt so bad I might drape them over the RR tracks and wait for a train. Coach says to ice and massage them, but I’m not ruling out amputation. Pray for me like I pray for you.

Sweet dreams,

Victoria

 

Dear Abel,

Coach ran a mile with me today, as my pacer. Kept giving me tips: keep me hips under me, level my stride so my head doesn’t bob up and down, strike the ground harder and directly under my hips. All this stuff to think about and the next thing I know four laps are over and he shows me the watch: 5:40! My fastest ever, but he said I’m just scratching the surface of my talent. My TALENT? AWESOME DAY. Then I realized, HOLY CRAP—he ran a mile with EVERYONE on the team, like nine of us, and never really seemed taxed. Not even when Carrie turned a 5:11. Dad says Coach ran sub fours in college. Crazy. Maybe I’ll be the first woman to break the four minute mile.

Sweet dreams,

Victoria

Abel,

It’s late and I’m exhausted. Just finished my homework. Teachers are piling it on. Ran into Phoebe Cornish on my way back from visiting Angelo (he was gone for a while). Said she was lost, but I know she was following me. The Clique is tenacious if nothing else. CC Practice was brutal. Our first meet is coming up and I’m not sure I’m ready. Coach had us run fast quarters, says the key to running fast is running faster. My fastest was 1:04. Carrie ran a flat minute on the same lap and told me to cool it. Sora was pissed. I finished ahead of her on all but 2 of 12 ¼s. Coach said he wish he’d got me on the team as a freshman—said I’d be setting records by now. I’m happy to just beat my own times. My mile is down to 5:20 and the way my training log reads I’m on track to run five flat before graduation. Lots of work before that happens, but as I continue losing fat, I keep getting faster. I can actually see muscles in my shoulders and legs, even a little 6-pack if I press my fingers on my stomach. My boobs shrank a little, but that’s better for my running. Not like you need to hear that, but I’ll bet the same thing is true for guys. Imagine a big ol’ elephant trunk down there. Ugh. No good. What a way to end a letter, huh? Sorry!

Sweet dreams,

your Victoria

Dear Abel,

I’m so angry my hands are shaking. I thought I could ignore those bitches and everything would be okay, but it’s not ok. And Brant, fucking puppet. He did it! Said he was just trying to scare him away. Why? What did he do to them? Lame-ass losers. The vet did as much as she could for free, an X-ray and binding, but she couldn’t keep him. Told me to drive him to the sanctuary. Dad won’t let me bring him in the house so he’s out back in the old dog run. Vet says breaks take six weeks to heal. 

Says he might never fly again. I’ll take care of him, bring him fish or frogs or whatever, but I feel like this is my fault and there’s nothing I can do about it. I need to clean up and go to bed.

Pray for me.

I’m in a bad place and I need it.

Sweet dreams,

Victoria

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Abel,

Did you ever mow for Mr. Pewit? Did you know he’s Mrs. Hatcher’s father? 

I just found out. She must have told him about me and the whole Angelo mess because he paid me double today. 

Claimed he’d been underpaying me and was just making up the deficit. Told me I could use the extra to buy some food. 

I said I was cutting weight for cross-country and he said maybe food for someone else, then.

I still wonder if everything (or anything) I’ve heard about him is true, and I can tell he knows I’m wondering. It’s a barrier between us. Though I’m sure he’s dealt with that unspoken question for a long time, the heaviness of it burdens him.

After all this BS with Carrie you’d think I’d be above the influence of hearsay. I’ve still got a lot of growing up to do.

Sweet dreams,

Victoria

 

 

 

Abel,

I used to run because I loved running. I was tearing away self-imposed limitations and setting new boundaries for myself. There was tremendous growth and selfdiscovery. I felt reborn like Saul described when he became Paul: a new creation. That even continued when my running became competitive. I was exploring the limits of my potential, constantly breaking through boundaries and resetting them. But I wasn’t growing anymore —the boundaries weren’t lateral; they were internal. I was burrowing into myself and getting lost in the vacuum. That’s what happens when you turn something in on itself: IMPLOSION. That’s how they trigger nuclear bombs. I’ve got a few weeks of training before State. Hard to believe I’m going. I don’t even care. Now that I’m winning races people act like I’m something special, but I’m just angry.

I’m winning races to punish Carrie and her gaggle of twits, to show them I can’t be pushed down. But it’s BS, because that’s exactly what I let them do—I let them drag me into their debased cycle of insecurity and compensation. Now I’m just like they are. At least Mom and Dad haven’t changed. Dad keeps saying Rine is a hell of a coach. Mom brings me doggie bags from the restaurant. Leaves notes: “Eat something—you’re skinny.” Never said a word about my dresses. Just rolled her eyes, glued the phone to her ear and started sucking cancer sticks.

Angelo isn’t doing so good. I feed him the stuff the sanctuary lady said he needs, but he’s dropping feathers and he’s agitated—keeps biting the fence and tries to get out. I know how he feels.

Does it ever get better, Abel?

Sweet dreams,

Victoria

 

Hey Abel,

Buzzing in the hallways again. Here’s why: Coach Rine said he’d give us as much training time as we wanted—the whole team—and I took him up on it. Practice ends at 5:30. Two hours, and everybody goes home. Carrie and Sora used to stay longer because I was staying, but they don’t anymore, so sometimes it’s just me and Coach for another hour or so. Sometimes it’s track and watch work or bleacher sprints, other times we run the CC trail. That’s what’s got people yapping—they’re trying to insinuate that we’re doing more than just run through the woods. Mr. Martin and Principle Veery had a closed-door meeting with me and Coach. They came right out and asked if there was any reason for concern. Rine handed Martin a flash drive and told him to plug it in. Every after-hours training session was recorded in video by a little flashlight-looking camera he wore on a headband. The camera saw what he saw, heard what we said. Every single minute Martin copied the flash drive and we were dismissed. There was no declaration of acquittal because no formal charges had been filed, so the hallways continued to buzz and I was back to being estranged and alone—though to be fair, I did that to myself. I’ve shut everyone out, even poor Angelo. I can see that he’s suffering, but I can’t do anything more to help him, so I avoid him.

States are a week away. I’m ready. I’ve been training hard. You wouldn’t even recognize me. A sophomore saw me changing and said I looked like a bodybuilder. Not even close! I’m the opposite! Bodybuilders pack on all kinds of useless muscles to put on a show; I’ve stripped away everything that isn’t essential. The only thing I have in common with bodybuilders is very low body fat. I’m as ripped as a newspaper in a hamster house. That’s what the girl reacted to.

Mom noticed another change, like a disturbance in the Force. She sensed I hadn’t had my period in a while and accused me of getting pregnant. She’s so clueless. I haven’t even been kissed. I’m not having my period because I’ve lost so much fat. I wouldn’t expect her to be hip to that, though; it’s not the sort of thing you’d learn through a telephone.

When Mom left for work Dad asked if it was true. I said no, and he seemed relieved, like he’d been a vigilant father, successfully thwarting unruly sperm donors in their attempts to force themselves between my legs. He never even got out of his chair. Does he ever, except to get beers?

Coach has me on a taper now—fewer and easier miles so my muscles will be primed for State. I’ve been eating extra pasta (quinoa and corn with raisins in the sauce!) from The Good Earth. Guess who owns it—Mrs. Ancona, Sora Jacana’s aunt. Small world. Oh, crap. It’s wicked late. See you in sweet dreams, brother.

Love,

Victoria

Abel,

Pray for me. In ten hours, I’m running for my life. I know that’s an exaggeration but that’s how it feels. I’m scared to death. I hope I can sleep.

Sweet dreams,

Victoria

Dear Abel,

There’s been so much noise lately you’ve probably already heard what I’m going to tell you. I won the State CC Finals! But what a circus. Carrie and Sora conspired to take me out of the race. They got a too-fast lead so we’d be by ourselves in the woods, and Carrie shoved me off the course. I fell on my arm and it broke. SNAP! like a stick. I got up and started running again but I was making noises like an angry bear. Carrie kept running, but Sora stopped to help me. She couldn’t, though, because I’d be disqualified. The other girls caught up. Sora said what happened, and they all stopped running. Rose told me to use my headband as a sling, so I did. I bound my hand to my waist. Then they all ran with me, like a pack. When we broke out of the woods I’d gotten my stride back. An Indian course judge asked me about my arm, but I just kept running. The adrenaline/anger cocktail was like rocket fuel. I was ahead of the pack and still pushing. I even got to see Carrie break the ribbon. I crossed the line a minute and two seconds later. The next fastest finished sixteen seconds after me.

That’s when everything went CRAZY. The girls were all up in Carrie’s face giving her shit and a swarm of coaches and officials had to break it up. A local news camera got right in the mix and caught it all. The Boston networks picked it up and it went national the next day. In Coach Rine’s interview he said I’d run the last quarter mile in just a few seconds over one minute. That’s probably why all those schools sent me invitations even though my official time was horrible. Carrie was disqualified, of course. That’s how I won.

The officials wanted me to take an ambulance to the hospital, but that seemed unnecessary. I wasn’t dying. You know who drove me? Mr. Pewit. My own parents weren’t there, but Mr. Pewit was. I got to ride in his classy old Mercedes, too. It was dark when I got home. Dad asked where I’d been and I reminded him of the State finals. “So what’s with the cast?” he asked. I told him I fell and broke my arm. That was it. No more questions.

I know you loved him, Abel, just as he loved you. But when you died, I think he did, too. It’s not your fault—I’m not laying blame, but Mom and Dad don’t seem to have any love left for me. I’m not going to play the victim card and cry about it, I’ve made it this far without their affection, but I want to be loved. I want to be wanted. I want to be missed when I’m away. I’m not going to get that from them.

I’ll see you in sweet dreams.

Love,

Victoria

Dear Abel,

This is my last letter. Don’t think I’ll ever forget you, you’re with me always. But it’s time for me to let go and move on. Mom and Dad couldn’t do that and their lives stopped. Life has good times and bad, high and low. It’s like an EKG: up and down. When it’s flat, you’re dead.

I’m leaving Marshfield. Heck, I’m leaving Massachusetts. I’ve got offers from excellent schools here, schools that would never have taken me on my academics, but they’re too familiar. My expectations won’t be challenged. That’s what I want, Abel. I want to have my preconceptions shattered. I want to exist in a state of wonder and disbelief and marvel at every new idea God gives me to explore. I want to feel my heart racing and the currents pulsing in rivers within, to throw myself head first into romance and harvest its fruits, to run with mountains beneath my feet and catch clouds in my arms. I want to LIVE, Abel.

Mrs. Ancona is a great boss. She taught me the business so I could run the store myself. I got to be good friends with Sora, too. Before I knew her I couldn’t understand how someone so exotic and beautiful could lack self-confidence and get trapped in a dependent relationship like she had with Carrie. Now I see that she always thought people only liked her because she was pretty, and she feared that without her looks she’d be alone. We’ve had great talks during runs. I’ll miss her.

Mrs. Hatcher and Mr. Pewit gave me a going-away present: a leather-bound journal and gold-nibbed fountain pen. A very generous cash gift, too. I told them I didn’t really need the money because of the Fieder’s settlement, but they insisted. Mrs. Hatcher told me to make the pages worth reading.

Oregon is roughly 3,000 miles away. I bought myself a Cannondale and some camping gear, and I’m biking across the country. I can’t think of a good reason not to go. I know you’ll be watching over me. Keep me in your prayers like I keep you in mine.

Sweet dreams.

Love,

Victoria

PEN America celebrates the winners of the 2016 Prison Writing Contest with a live event, PEN Breakout: Voices from the Inside on Nov. 28 at The Green Space in New York City.