From the bright kitchen where I’m chopping vegetables while Mark prepares the saute pan, the rest of the house is a dim twilight of shadowy hobgoblins that I ignore. Hyper-awareness of minuscule movements puts me on edge, yet I brush them off with pragmatic explanations—air from the heating vents causing the curtains to tremble for a flickering effect from the outside lighting. I continue cutting produce even as a presence hits me like an aroma announcing gangrene. The invisible being jerks me off my feet and thrashes me on the kitchen counter, mashing vegetables. Mark continues the monologue of his day, oblivious to my distress. My voice is silent as I separate from my physical form.

I wake with a start. Mark is hugging me in what passes for night in the city, his arms silhouetted by the building lights. The panting, I realize, is coming from me as I calm myself in a feverish sweat, stars still twinkling before my eyes, now open. Mark’s arms are squeezing me tight. Too tight—limiting my breathing. The panting, not me this time, becomes a rough-edged heat in my left ear, almost words, but not in a recognizable language.

Gasping for air, I awaken on the couch, obviously in the midst of a wild catnap. The air shimmers with sunlight. I am heavy-limbed and fuzzy-brained, watching the shimmer solidify ever so slowly into beings passing one another without speaking. The couch holds me like a magnet. So many people—they’re jostling around each other, and then they are forcing past one another, still silent. They are walking through the couch. They are walking through me.

A cry builds in me, but remains inside as I sit up on the couch, wide awake now. Yet the darkness is not what passes for city nights. It’s truly dark. I reach out past the couch—no people, but I’m not entirely sure I would feel them. Not with my fingers anyway, and there are no arm hairs rising to announce any presence. Putting my feet down to stand, I find no resistance, no floor. My feet dangle, so I draw them back onto the couch. I tell myself that I am dreaming. I shake my head, tears flying.

I wake. Still darkness. I shake my head fiercely, crying loud heaving sobs.

I wake. Still darkness. I give in and lie back on the couch, sniffling indelicately.

I wake to a snore that takes me a moment to realize it was mine. I’m in bed. Alone. I hear a noise in the other room. That better be Mark. The real Mark.

Journal of Stanley Rogan Jr.

(Keep the fuck out!)

June 11: The incarceration of Stanley Rogan begins with a bang. Slam that fucking door, officer!

June 17: If I don’t write this down, I may go insane. My sister forgave me. I cried like a baby, in front of God and everyone, and it felt so good. I didn’t give a damn what anyone thought. What the hell do I care what these losers think anyway? They’re criminals, fugitives, felons, thugs.

June 24: My sisters came again. I don’t know what to say. Cheryl’s given up on me. I never got to tell her that she gave me the courage to stand up to Donkey. He hasn’t touched me since I met her.

June 26: Huh. I do know what to say. Do they have nothing better to do than visit a loser in prison?????

July 1: Those girls are coming every Saturday! Vonni said mom checked herself into the loony bin. It’s about time. She’s been in her own little world forever. Guess I’m in mine now.

July 8: Well, I missed Fourth of July. No fireworks for me, the loser. If Livy doesn’t stop showing me her photos of flowers and deer, I may break the UNBREAKABLE glass and rip her fucking throat out!!!!!!

July 9: My asshole father never visits………….

July 15: Vonni is so damn infuriating, but I don’t know why. There’s nothing to grasp. She’s like air. I can’t stand to see her, but please God, don’t let her stop coming.

July 17: I made the girls some flowers out of toilet paper. Took me some doing to get enough from everyone. All my fucking cigarettes gone to those fucking scumbags. The girls will be polite and fall all over themselves, but it’s all I got to give. I can’t even hand them out. They can only look at my handiwork through the freaking glass. Oh well……until Saturday.

July 19: sonofabitch son of a mother fucking bitch do i matter at all god

July 20: I can’t tell Vonni what happened.

July 22: I told Vonni. She cried. Livy got pissed. Fuck her!

July 25: I’m sorry I flushed the flowers. I will never never never be touched that way again.

July 29: Vonni told me that she is trying to appeal for me, and if it that doesn’t work, then she tries to get me out on good behavior. She is a mother-loving saint, that girl! What is wrong with her???

August 5: vonni didn’t come

August 7: she won’t come again

August 8: fuck her i don’t want her to come

August 11: please god let vonni come tomorrow i gotta talk to her

August 12: vonni came

August 13: God, forgive me for I have sinned. I hurt my sister.

August 19: Vonni brought photos of mom and dad. I didn’t want to see them. I gotta check on this Dolly Lama dude she told me about. Says he helps her keep her sanity.

August 21: Library day. Checked out two books on Dalai Lama. I’m embarrassed about spelling it wrong. I won’t tell Vonni. I can’t believe a prison library had his books. Chuck said they always let them get books on religion. Says a lot of guys find religion in the slammer.

August 26: Told Vonni I misspelled The Dalai Lama. She said that’s very funny, I never thought to tell you how to spell it. She has a wicked funny laugh. You gotta laugh with her. She asked me if she could bring someone to meet me next Saturday if the guards let her. I said sure. I told her if she didn’t want to bring Miss Hifalutin Livy next Saturday as well that I hadn’t missed her company today. She told me she promised nothing, that Livy had a showing today and that’s why she didn’t come. Why can’t I be mad at her? She can be just as bitchy as mom.

But I never hurt mom.

September 2: Vonni said dad is now in a loony bin too, a different one, cuz he was wandering the streets talking to himself. She said he had pissed himself. Well, she didn’t say pissed, cuz she doesn’t say pissed. I asked her was I supposed to forgive him now. She said no, of course not and she cried a little. She tried to hide it.

September 4: Forgive me father for I have sinned. I have wished my father dead.

September 7: I’m not really understanding this Lama guy. Vonni must be smarter than me. Or crazier. How can we all be one? One what? How do I forgive someone I don’t even know? For what? I didn’t do anything to any strangers.

September 9: Vonni asked me about the damn books. I asked her where’s her friend? She said the guards only allowed family. So she showed me his picture. He looks okay I guess. I’m mad at her about that stupid monk, but I can’t tell her. Livy didn’t come. Halifuckingluah

September 11: Patrol board came in today. Talked to me about my good behavior. Guess they hadn’t caught on yet that Jonesy jumped that guy cuz of me. Not that I asked him to. Jonesy said I had too pretty a face to be in here. Vonni said God sent Jonesy to help me. I haven’t seen him since. Guess God took him back. Patrol board said if I keep showing promise of rehabilitating, I can start a job in here next month, and maybe we start discussing parole. We? I get some kind of say in this? Uh yeah

September 15: Livy came today, said Vonni was sick. I asked her not to show me pictures of flowers. She said oh and put her case down. She told me she loved me, do I know that. I said sure. Long visit. Quiet. Fucking waste of time, that girl.

But then, all I got is time.

September 23: My sister asked my forgiveness. Livy made sure to mouth off about making Vonni stay home last week, cuz she was too sick to get out of bed. Bitch. If Vonni wanted to come, she should’ve shut the hell up and let her come. Now she’s all sad. I told her there was nothing to forgive. So why is my stomach churning?

September 30: Vonni asked me about those damn books. I told her I was looking at the Bible now for inspiration. She said that was fine too, but her eyes didn’t agree. I can see why she wouldn’t want to get wrapped up in the fucking religion that put our mom in the loony bin, but it’s what I know. That other shit doesn’t make any sense to me. Oh, Vonni asked me to stop cussing. I told her I would consider that as soon as I get out of this lovely resort. Livy got pissed. Fuck her! I told her she didn’t need to come. She cried. She can cry all the way home.

October 2: Parole board gave me the “option” of working in the laundry. If it gets me out of here faster, whatever. I’ll get myself a better job on the outside.

October 4: This laundry business isn’t so bad. Guys in the laundry are cool, I guess. No one touches me. I asked about Jonesy. No one knows him. Said they don’t.

October 7: The girls are happy that I’m working. I told them it makes me feel like a man, working hard labor, even though I’m being rehabilitated. I apologized to Livy and showed her the toilet paper flower I made her that cost me 8 packs of cigarettes. Man, when I get out of here I might just take up smoking. I’m gonna miss these little crinkly packs. Who knew they could be so useful?

October 8: Danny fell down today and had himself some kind of seizure. We yelled and yelled for the guards. They took their time. Fucking Nazis! When they saw Danny, they about wet their fancy pants. The big asshole radioed someone, and eventually two guys with a gurney showed up. Danny was already done shaking. He looked dead. Mental note: do not suffer ill health in this madhouse. You will probably die.

October 14: Told the girls what happened to Danny. Haven’t seen him since. They were real quiet, but I could see Vonni’s lips moving and her eyes were closed. Then she asked me if the guards had families. I said probably. She wanted to know if I thought their families were scared for them working here. She looked real serious, so I told her probably. Think about it she said.

October 15: I’ve been thinking about the guards’ families. Vonni’s right. They have wives and kids. I bet their wives hate their jobs. I wonder if their kids are proud of daddy working in a jailhouse. No father and son day at work here. I gotta quit staring at the guards.

October 16: shit shit shit one of the guards walked up to me today outside, asked me if I had a problem, why was I staring? I told him I was thinking about their families. He said stop thinking about our families. I said no, not that way, I was thinking that they might be scared that you work here. He looked sideways at me, then asked why was I thinking that. Ain’t I the one who pushed my sister down the cliff? Why you concerned that way about someone else’s family? I told him never mind, I stop staring.

October 17: That same guard came up to me today. He said he thought about me all night, and he wanted to know more about what I was thinking. I told him yes, I did push my sister. She didn’t deserve it, and I shouldn’t have done it. Besides, she’s forgiven me, and I asked God to forgive me. He said that was the proper way and wasn’t I lucky to have a forgiving sister. Don’t I know they have seen a lot of her at this facility visiting me and working on getting me out early. I said thank you for your time officer.

October 19: That guard introduced himself to me. His name is Anthony something Italian. He said he’d shake my hand, but he didn’t want either one of us killed that day, so I’d have to just know it. I nodded, looking around at my boys. I’d tell them he was ‘inquiring’ as to certain rumors. Anthony advised me to tell others he was asking me about rumors. What a guy! He asked about the religious books I’d been taking out of the library. I told him the truth. He nodded, then told me to fake a move. I did. He put his hand on his gun. I put up my hands and laughed, told him gotcha officer.

I, Lael Braday, submit the ~1,950-word prologue to my ~72,500-word, character-driven, literary, coming-of-age novel Monsters Never Get the Funny Guys. My expected audience is adult women of all ages, with possible mature teen and occasional male readers. The prologue foreshadows the climax of sibling violence and the ensuing chaos. I believe my story is commercially viable, with emotion-inducing scenes and relatable characters who remain true to themselves. A people-oriented life-long learner, I have a spare writing style with telling details to allow readers to draw conclusions, engaging them interactively with the story.

Life astonishes Vonni. Out of step with the world in her Victorian fashion, and separated from society as her mother’s caregiver, she falls into a peculiar love affair with a fellow Church of Religious Science parishioner as she pursues a living as a romance writer. Dad moves the family around the country chasing “uncles,” kidnaps the children after mom’s affair, and commits random acts of meanness on little brother Stanley Jr., who is befriended by other loners wherever they settle, and finds love in high school with a girl who is also broken. Big sister Livy builds a successful nature photography career as she mangles relations with her family and girlfriend. Vonni is the lone Rogan left standing after a family-shattering injury by a sibling.

I am a Midwestern Southerner in the Carolinas, reader, writer, traveler, animal lover, and city explorer, holding a BA in English with a focus on creative writing, and curator for Storyteller Magazine, with published novellas in online anthologies. I currently work on my second novel, told from the perspectives of three cousins, about a teenage girl raised by her mentally ill mother and then left with a mean aunt – a damaged girl who inexplicably fails to follow her intended path via a college scholarship, with only the reader privy, through her journal, to her life-altering experience of sexual assault by a teacher. You can find me online at LaelBraday.com, Facebook.com/LaelBraday, and Twitter as @LaelBraday.

I pull the blinds all the way up, then allow them to fall down past the window sill. After adjusting them to again fit within the window frame, I run my hand across one at eye level.

“It’s very clean.”

“Yes.”

“Jason, are you embarrassed?”

“My obsessive cleanliness is not usually a topic of discussion for me.”

“Who has been here that has not noted it?”

“Everyone but you, actually.”

“Hmm…..”

“Not another woman, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s actually not relevant to me. I’m pleased with your cleanliness.”

I turn the wooden slats to permit the sun to access the farther corners of the room. Closing my eyes, I let the sun warm my skin, appraising the rare luxury of its rays.

Now I tilt the blinds enough to block visual access to the interior while asking the sun to spread a soft, golden glow around the room.

It’s time to play a new game.

“Jason, are you familiar with the Vitruvian Man?”

“Yes.” I can hear laughter in his voice.

“Please take that stance in the center of the room.”

“Alright, next request.”

“Remove your shirt.”

“Okay.”

Still facing the window, eyes no longer seeing the slats, I continue to instruct Jason in my requests for removal of his clothing, item by item, down to his underclothing. Anticipation causes my breathing to become audible. This does not concern me. I can hear my heart beating in my head, can feel it in my chest. I remain still.

When I at last turn, a work of art faces me, his arms outstretched.

“You may lower your arms when they tire.”

Standing behind him, I reach around with one hand and caress his toned torso, feeling a hint of ribs under my fingers. The warmth of him caresses me in return. With the other hand, I release my hair. Maintaining contact with his body, I duck under his left arm, my own left arm continuing to reach around him, softly fingering his back muscles. Such power in a mere man. I had no idea. Both of my hands are slowly circling his person now, brushing just enough to explore. The next revolution leaves my shoes behind him. This was a feat, with all those little buttons. How long it took me to find such boots to match my dresses. One more turn and my socks lay across my footwear. Jason lowers his arms, only to raise them with my passing, as though the game cannot proceed if I do not pass under them.

My beautiful stranger grins all the way to his blue eyes. On the next passing, I raise my skirts to expose my bare legs, then drop my skirt to face him, standing close enough to touch his nose with mine, but not touch his body with my own. He winks at me. As I again walk around him, he places his hands behind his head as though he’s relaxing. Sighs tumble from him.

I must walk a wider berth in front to avoid his erection. My, but it’s huge! I wish someone had told me about this business. I’m not sure I’m liking where that thing is supposed to fit. On the seventh turn, just after the skirt flies onto the bed, I remove my dress, sure that he will expect more than what I am still wearing, an under-dress that’s a bit more than a slip. His eyes confirm this when they narrow at my reappearance. This pleases me for some reason.

Once more around, bending at unusual angles to explore his legs, I straighten behind him to allow my under-dress to leave my person. I carelessly kick it onto the bed. Down to camisole and leggings, I allow him to view me once more, shocked that this layer breaks his silence.

“Other women don’t look nearly as good in that outfit. Is that why you cover it?”

He cannot get away with that. I circle without removing anything so that he may recognize his error.

The camisole.

The leggings.

The bra.

The panties.

Although I could explore him endlessly, I am loathe to move the game forward. The image in my mind now having morphed into reality with no exception, I at last relent.

“You may now touch me. We will only be touching today. I hope this is satisfactory to you. If not, I don’t know what to say.”

Goosebumps cover my arms from my nervousness as Jason reaches toward me. With relief, I watch him lift a great handful of hair to his face, closing his eyes and inhaling.

“So soft.”

I bravely walk into his person and find that I fit into the inviting space between his collarbone and shoulder. He drops my hair and rubs my back. His erection stands up past my bellybutton, across my stomach, leaning to the left. I don’t know why this makes me giggle.

It also inexplicably prompts me to inform him, “I am acutely aware of my navel.”

He snakes his hand in between us to find my navel.

“It doesn’t seem unusual to me.”

“No. But I am unusually aware of it.”

“Okay.”

I now permit him to touch me anywhere he wished. Nudity is so awkward. Oh, I see that his hands fit completely over my butt cheeks. That is less awkward. Even pleasant.

We move apart, Jason’s eyes roaming over my body, nearly as physical as his hands.

“Would you like music?”

“I would.”

He places a CD in the player. James Taylor sings to us of his life.

Jason holds his hand out to me and places the other on my waist. Keeping a slight distance, we dance slowly to Carolina on My Mind, through Sweet Baby James, melding into each other on You’ve Got a Friend. His hand on my back makes me feel secure. The other hand petting my hair makes me feel loved. How is this possible with a stranger?

He whispers in my ear, “I love your dresses. They’re like wrappings of a lovely gift, each layer more beautiful than the previous, well worth the wait of unwrapping.”

“You’re making me blush.”

“Is that what it takes?” He laughs softly.

“I suppose it is.”

We dance to the end of the CD, Jason twirling me a couple of times.

He dips me long and low, my hair’s weight settling on the floor. Returning upright, he pulls his arm out under my hair, stretching it out in the air.

“Gorgeous.”

He holds my face with both hands, looking into my eyes.

“I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I choose to be here.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“Thank you.”

“May I re-wrap you, beautiful woman?”

“I don’t know.” He laughs, a hearty, full-throated laugh, and kisses my forehead. He retrieves my underwear. I stand while he places the bra on me and hooks it. I follow his lead, stepping into the panties, retracing my steps in reverse, but more directly.

He learns each layer as I instruct how to button the delicate pearl buttons on the under-dress and tie the sash on the dress. Then I watch him dress. Afterwards, he even places my socks and shoes on my feet before he puts on his own.

He walks me home. I can hear him whistling as he heads back to his own. When I can no longer hear him, I relinquish my hold on the front door and go to my room to document the date in my journal.

Lucy scrolls through Facebook, trying to turn off her mind’s babble in an attempt to repress the words of those little imps. Sticks and stones indeed break bones, but words also do hurt. Natural disasters normally make her heart race. Troll commentary usually urges her to literally LOL. Grammar nazis generally get her goat going. Today, not even her secret pleasure of cat videos – those little beany toes! – suppresses the demonic taunting.

She clicks on a video of a blonde woman with an accent, the one she devilishly twisted for those happy-go-luckies “down under,” the ingrates, no appreciation at all her work. Down Under! Down Under! Just like her, but they refuse to get it. They’re too freaking happy to be the scariest country on earth, with the most fearsome animals. Still, the connection eludes them. Scariest? Fearsome? Hello!

Anyway, this blondie started The Body Movement, griping about hating her body. Betcha no one ever calls her a man. Wait! Look at these other women. They have big chunky bodies like Lucy. But none of them have her black hair, red skin. No one says they have goat’s hooves. None of them have claws for fingernails. No one calls them “Master.” No one calls them “Lucifer.”

She’s co-hosting her second religion. She’s changed her locale, her whole décor, from floral greenery to fiery red-hot mama, and they continue to mangle her name and treat her as a male deity. No matter how many thousands of years, she will never be Blondie.

“Whatcha doin’, Lucifer, watching cat videos again?” The little demon snickers.

“It’s Lucy Fer! I’m a girl!” She roars to the heavens. Yes, she knows her hears her. She knows he’s laughing. He’s been laughing at her since he called himself Zeus and lived on a stupid mountain. He’s been laughing ever since he gave her goat’s feet. He thought it oh so clever to match her skin to her latest decor. Always, the male has the power. Older brothers make for cruel deities.