LETTERS FROM INSIDE
Available NOW
Sometimes even the best chapters or favorite scenes get cut. However, I'm not one to throw things away. Remember- I'm a collector. And saving deleted works is not unusual. Hopefully, you'll be reading this romantic suspense, Letters From Inside, soon. I'd like to introduce you to the villain, Carl Jenkins, a pervert serving time in Jackson State prison for rape. Even though this prologue didn't make it into the book, I think you'll find it interesting.
Prologue
The squeal of rusty wheels rolling across the cement floor pulled Carl from his nap and signaled it was almost noon. And time for mail. Not that he’d get anything…still, even a few seconds conversation would be nice. Most likely, the mail-pigeon trustee would sail past the cell without so much as a nod; afraid of losing his precious job and the three cents an hour it paid if he fraternized with the prisoners.
Carl stretched out on the top bunk and laced his fingers behind his head, then stared at a dead fly splattered against the ceiling. Despite the fact this shit-hole reeked of urine and was hotter than hell, he couldn't suppress a grin at the shouts echoing down C-block when the trolley passed each cell. Every con here craved a card or letter, words filled with hope from the outside. And expressed their disappointment loudly.
Today the squealing stopped outside his cell door. “Hey Jenkins, you've got mail.”
“You sure?” he asked, and jumped down from his bunk. A deep scar that cut his brow was nearly covered by the stubborn lock of hair.
“You want it or don’t you? I ain't got all day,” and shoved the envelope between the bars.
Carl took the envelope and waved it to his cellmate.
“What’d you know? I got mail.” He’d only received one other letter the entire time he’d been here.
“I told you someone would answer,” Gobbler said. The scrawny cellmate unfolded from the small table, abandoning the game of solitaire. “The world’s full of lonely hearts,” he said, a large knot in his throat bobbed up and down as he spoke.
Gobbler patted his shirt pocket stuffed with letters from his girl. “I hope she’s as nice as Jean.”
Carl ignored his cellmate, not taking his eyes off the stationary. The pink and white envelope had detailed flowers across the flap. He lifted it to his nose and breathed the soft perfume scent on the paper.
“Roses,” he said, taking a long, deep draw. “I miss the smell of roses. Sweet,” he said. “Soft. Not strong like your Jean’s.” He waved the envelope slow beneath his nose. “Smells fresh and pure, kind of powdery, like a real woman.”
Gobbler rolled his eyes and sat on the edge of the bunk. “Like you would know fresh and pure. You ain't fooling nobody, man. Especially your cellie.” Gobbler made a gesture of waving a rag beneath his nose, his pinkie extended. “My, how I just love the smell of roses.” He squawked, and rolled backwards onto his bunk laughing.
Carl shot him a scowl. “Shut up, will ya, dip-shit? I can’t concentrate with you cackling like a stuck hen.”
He slid his finger beneath the flap. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead as he remembered the last letter, a short, unforgiving note from his mother.
“Well, what’s the damn thing say?” Gobbler demanded.
Carl hungered for moments when he was not viewed as a felon tagged by a number, but as a man, capable of warmth and emotion.
This better not be a joke. It wouldn't surprise him if maybe another inmate thought to mess with his mind, you know. Send him a letter. He’d done his time the hard way, without the encouragement of family or friends.
The postmark read Berrien, Michigan. Definitely from the outside.
Warmth spread through him. The sentiment shocked and surprised him. Another person had reached out to him and it caught him off guard. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the person who had reached into his lonely world.
“Well…? You gonna read it or frame it?” Gobbler grumbled.
“Hold your fucking horses, damn it. Can I just enjoy the moment, huh?”
Gobbler’s face sagged as he leaned against the pillow to wait. Carl thumbed through the folded pages and found the start of the letter. “Okay, I’ll read it. But I’m only reading it to you once. And I’m not reading all of it to you. I gotta keep some thing private,”
“Dear Carl,” he began, and then glanced over at Gobbler. “She ain't afraid to show affection. I like that in a woman.”
“I hear that.” Gobbler nodded in agreement.
Carl continued reading. “What are you in for? I hope you didn't kill someone. I wouldn't want to write to a murderer.”
“I wonder how she feels about writing to a convicted—”
Carl stood quickly, the metal chair scrapping the tile and within seconds stood beside the metal bunk and placed his boot on the mattress, inches from the roommate’s scrawny neck. “I told you before, asshole, I didn't force any one.”
Gobbler scooted against the wall, the knotty cords in his throat bobbed up and down. “Right, I hear ya, man. But you’re gonna have to do better than that if you want the parole board to release you next month,” he said. “They want you sobbing buckets of tears, full of remorse, asking forgiveness from God and everybody. It’s the only way you’ll ever see the light of day again.”
Letters From Inside-
Chapter One
The bedroom door slammed behind her as Jessie threw herself on the ruffled spread stretched smooth across the bed, the one chore her mom still seemed willing to do as part of her motherly duty.
Grabbing the slim-line phone, Jessie dialed her best friend. If she had a cell phone she could have called her sooner, like the moment she’d opened the mailbox and saw the cryptic handwriting, knowing immediately it was from him. “Hey, Lisa. What’re you doing?”
She turned on the small Holly Hobby lamp that had belonged to her mom and, with the phone cradled next to her ear, removed a wrinkled envelope from beneath the waistband of her jeans.
“Not much,” Lisa said. “Same-O-bull.”
“Well… guess what?” Jessie lay back against the headboard. “I got another letter today.”
“Another one? That makes what? Four? Five?” Lisa’s high pitch squeal blasted through the receiver.
“Five, not counting the card he made me.”
“Seriously? I can’t believe you’re actually writing to a convict.”
“I am very serious. I stopped playing games a long time ago.”
“Aren't you the least bit afraid? I mean, convicts are dangerous you know.”
“First of all, I like to think of him as a kindred spirit. Like me, he’s someone whose rights have been taken away. He probably didn't do much of anything, just couldn't blend in with the so-called normal people.” She blew at the bangs hanging over her eyes. “As if we all can.”
“Yeah, but Jess–”
“But what? Mom’s doing her best to keep me a prisoner around here, I may as well find out first hand what being locked up is all about.”
Jessie rolled across the bed and placed her feet against the headboard.
“Okay, I see your point,” Lisa agreed. “What will you do if he wants to meet you or something? Or, oh my God, what if he’s like, a sex pervert? He could be a real psycho.”
“You’re starting to sound just like my mom. I’m not going to write him forever, you know.”
Her stomach fluttered and she wondered for a moment if maybe this hadn't been such a good idea, and then envisioned her mom’s stern face and squelched the thought. With all the crap she’d been through lately, this diversion was just what she needed.
“Don’t forget the guy’s locked up, remember? Unless he’s Houdini there’s not much he can do behind bars,” Jessie said, and let go a long exaggerated breath. “Guess what I asked him?” Her girlish giggles erupted and she dropped her voice barely above a whisper. “If they really make license plates,” she said and snorted with laughter. “Can you imagine? I get my permit next year. I could probably get a discount on my tags.”
The sound of her mom’s footsteps stopped outside her room.
“I’m leaving for work now, Jess. Be sure and lock the door, okay?”
“Okay, Mom. I will.” Soon after, her mom’s car started up and rolled down the driveway.
“I've heard those cons have humongous biceps. I mean all their spare time is spent pumping iron, right?” Her face became hot just thinking about what the mysterious pen pal might look like. “I’ll bet he’s a hunk.”
“Well, I still think you’re crazy, Jess. What are you going do if your mom sees the letters? Or, even worse, suppose he were to call the house or something?”
“Relax. Our mail doesn't come until late afternoon and I always get it first. And I didn't give him the phone number. I’m not totally stupid, you know. Besides, it’d probably be collect and my mom would never accept the charges. You know how freaking cheap she is. I mean, come on, I'm probably the only living person on the planet who still uses an old fashioned house telephone. I mean, would it kill her to shell out eighty bucks a month for me to have a freaking cell phone?”
“She told you she didn't have the money, Jess.”
“Whatever.”
“I don’t think you should write him again. Besides, couldn't he, like, get in trouble, you know, writing to a minor?”
“I already thought of that. I signed the letter Linda Wheeler. Cool, huh?”
“You did not!”
Jessie held the phone away from her ear until the yelling died down. “Chill out, will ya? I’m sure I’ll probably never meet the guy. And if by chance he does show up, so what? Mom doesn't appreciate a good man. Let’s see how she deals with a bad one.”
Available NOW
Sometimes even the best chapters or favorite scenes get cut. However, I'm not one to throw things away. Remember- I'm a collector. And saving deleted works is not unusual. Hopefully, you'll be reading this romantic suspense, Letters From Inside, soon. I'd like to introduce you to the villain, Carl Jenkins, a pervert serving time in Jackson State prison for rape. Even though this prologue didn't make it into the book, I think you'll find it interesting.
Prologue
The squeal of rusty wheels rolling across the cement floor pulled Carl from his nap and signaled it was almost noon. And time for mail. Not that he’d get anything…still, even a few seconds conversation would be nice. Most likely, the mail-pigeon trustee would sail past the cell without so much as a nod; afraid of losing his precious job and the three cents an hour it paid if he fraternized with the prisoners.
Carl stretched out on the top bunk and laced his fingers behind his head, then stared at a dead fly splattered against the ceiling. Despite the fact this shit-hole reeked of urine and was hotter than hell, he couldn't suppress a grin at the shouts echoing down C-block when the trolley passed each cell. Every con here craved a card or letter, words filled with hope from the outside. And expressed their disappointment loudly.
Today the squealing stopped outside his cell door. “Hey Jenkins, you've got mail.”
“You sure?” he asked, and jumped down from his bunk. A deep scar that cut his brow was nearly covered by the stubborn lock of hair.
“You want it or don’t you? I ain't got all day,” and shoved the envelope between the bars.
Carl took the envelope and waved it to his cellmate.
“What’d you know? I got mail.” He’d only received one other letter the entire time he’d been here.
“I told you someone would answer,” Gobbler said. The scrawny cellmate unfolded from the small table, abandoning the game of solitaire. “The world’s full of lonely hearts,” he said, a large knot in his throat bobbed up and down as he spoke.
Gobbler patted his shirt pocket stuffed with letters from his girl. “I hope she’s as nice as Jean.”
Carl ignored his cellmate, not taking his eyes off the stationary. The pink and white envelope had detailed flowers across the flap. He lifted it to his nose and breathed the soft perfume scent on the paper.
“Roses,” he said, taking a long, deep draw. “I miss the smell of roses. Sweet,” he said. “Soft. Not strong like your Jean’s.” He waved the envelope slow beneath his nose. “Smells fresh and pure, kind of powdery, like a real woman.”
Gobbler rolled his eyes and sat on the edge of the bunk. “Like you would know fresh and pure. You ain't fooling nobody, man. Especially your cellie.” Gobbler made a gesture of waving a rag beneath his nose, his pinkie extended. “My, how I just love the smell of roses.” He squawked, and rolled backwards onto his bunk laughing.
Carl shot him a scowl. “Shut up, will ya, dip-shit? I can’t concentrate with you cackling like a stuck hen.”
He slid his finger beneath the flap. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead as he remembered the last letter, a short, unforgiving note from his mother.
“Well, what’s the damn thing say?” Gobbler demanded.
Carl hungered for moments when he was not viewed as a felon tagged by a number, but as a man, capable of warmth and emotion.
This better not be a joke. It wouldn't surprise him if maybe another inmate thought to mess with his mind, you know. Send him a letter. He’d done his time the hard way, without the encouragement of family or friends.
The postmark read Berrien, Michigan. Definitely from the outside.
Warmth spread through him. The sentiment shocked and surprised him. Another person had reached out to him and it caught him off guard. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the person who had reached into his lonely world.
“Well…? You gonna read it or frame it?” Gobbler grumbled.
“Hold your fucking horses, damn it. Can I just enjoy the moment, huh?”
Gobbler’s face sagged as he leaned against the pillow to wait. Carl thumbed through the folded pages and found the start of the letter. “Okay, I’ll read it. But I’m only reading it to you once. And I’m not reading all of it to you. I gotta keep some thing private,”
“Dear Carl,” he began, and then glanced over at Gobbler. “She ain't afraid to show affection. I like that in a woman.”
“I hear that.” Gobbler nodded in agreement.
Carl continued reading. “What are you in for? I hope you didn't kill someone. I wouldn't want to write to a murderer.”
“I wonder how she feels about writing to a convicted—”
Carl stood quickly, the metal chair scrapping the tile and within seconds stood beside the metal bunk and placed his boot on the mattress, inches from the roommate’s scrawny neck. “I told you before, asshole, I didn't force any one.”
Gobbler scooted against the wall, the knotty cords in his throat bobbed up and down. “Right, I hear ya, man. But you’re gonna have to do better than that if you want the parole board to release you next month,” he said. “They want you sobbing buckets of tears, full of remorse, asking forgiveness from God and everybody. It’s the only way you’ll ever see the light of day again.”
Letters From Inside-
Chapter One
The bedroom door slammed behind her as Jessie threw herself on the ruffled spread stretched smooth across the bed, the one chore her mom still seemed willing to do as part of her motherly duty.
Grabbing the slim-line phone, Jessie dialed her best friend. If she had a cell phone she could have called her sooner, like the moment she’d opened the mailbox and saw the cryptic handwriting, knowing immediately it was from him. “Hey, Lisa. What’re you doing?”
She turned on the small Holly Hobby lamp that had belonged to her mom and, with the phone cradled next to her ear, removed a wrinkled envelope from beneath the waistband of her jeans.
“Not much,” Lisa said. “Same-O-bull.”
“Well… guess what?” Jessie lay back against the headboard. “I got another letter today.”
“Another one? That makes what? Four? Five?” Lisa’s high pitch squeal blasted through the receiver.
“Five, not counting the card he made me.”
“Seriously? I can’t believe you’re actually writing to a convict.”
“I am very serious. I stopped playing games a long time ago.”
“Aren't you the least bit afraid? I mean, convicts are dangerous you know.”
“First of all, I like to think of him as a kindred spirit. Like me, he’s someone whose rights have been taken away. He probably didn't do much of anything, just couldn't blend in with the so-called normal people.” She blew at the bangs hanging over her eyes. “As if we all can.”
“Yeah, but Jess–”
“But what? Mom’s doing her best to keep me a prisoner around here, I may as well find out first hand what being locked up is all about.”
Jessie rolled across the bed and placed her feet against the headboard.
“Okay, I see your point,” Lisa agreed. “What will you do if he wants to meet you or something? Or, oh my God, what if he’s like, a sex pervert? He could be a real psycho.”
“You’re starting to sound just like my mom. I’m not going to write him forever, you know.”
Her stomach fluttered and she wondered for a moment if maybe this hadn't been such a good idea, and then envisioned her mom’s stern face and squelched the thought. With all the crap she’d been through lately, this diversion was just what she needed.
“Don’t forget the guy’s locked up, remember? Unless he’s Houdini there’s not much he can do behind bars,” Jessie said, and let go a long exaggerated breath. “Guess what I asked him?” Her girlish giggles erupted and she dropped her voice barely above a whisper. “If they really make license plates,” she said and snorted with laughter. “Can you imagine? I get my permit next year. I could probably get a discount on my tags.”
The sound of her mom’s footsteps stopped outside her room.
“I’m leaving for work now, Jess. Be sure and lock the door, okay?”
“Okay, Mom. I will.” Soon after, her mom’s car started up and rolled down the driveway.
“I've heard those cons have humongous biceps. I mean all their spare time is spent pumping iron, right?” Her face became hot just thinking about what the mysterious pen pal might look like. “I’ll bet he’s a hunk.”
“Well, I still think you’re crazy, Jess. What are you going do if your mom sees the letters? Or, even worse, suppose he were to call the house or something?”
“Relax. Our mail doesn't come until late afternoon and I always get it first. And I didn't give him the phone number. I’m not totally stupid, you know. Besides, it’d probably be collect and my mom would never accept the charges. You know how freaking cheap she is. I mean, come on, I'm probably the only living person on the planet who still uses an old fashioned house telephone. I mean, would it kill her to shell out eighty bucks a month for me to have a freaking cell phone?”
“She told you she didn't have the money, Jess.”
“Whatever.”
“I don’t think you should write him again. Besides, couldn't he, like, get in trouble, you know, writing to a minor?”
“I already thought of that. I signed the letter Linda Wheeler. Cool, huh?”
“You did not!”
Jessie held the phone away from her ear until the yelling died down. “Chill out, will ya? I’m sure I’ll probably never meet the guy. And if by chance he does show up, so what? Mom doesn't appreciate a good man. Let’s see how she deals with a bad one.”
I've always had my nose buried in a book and remember the day I was awarded my first library card. I went faithfully on Saturdays checking out my limit. My favorites I read over and over again. And for awhile reading was enough, until the day it wasn't. For whatever reason, I picked up a pen and just wrote. And I've been at it ever since. I’m a long time member of Romance Writers of America and local chapter Mid-Michigan RWA. I'm an active member of the group The Writer’s All. 2012 saw my first publication of a novella, Night Bird by The Wild Rose Press under the pen name Teresa Blue. And my first contemporary novel, Man of Her Dreams will be relaunched sometime in 2014.
