Giving Thanks

Subtlety? We don’t need no stinkin’ subtlety ‘round here…
by Thomas Bartlett Whitaker

Latreus had just started punishing his fourth cigarette when he felt a slight pressure begin to build behind his temples. That wasn’t precisely right, since he didn’t exactly have temples. Or a head. He wasn’t exactly a “he” either, if you really want to get all pedantic about it. This wasn’t his fault. Things just got kind of squishy at his end of existence’s cul-de-sac. The pressure was really more of a hum. You’d have been able to peg it if you’d been raised on a proper 53-note scale, instead of having been utterly ruined by that dozen business. Anyways: the hum-that-wasn’t built until the fundamental note ended abruptly in a loud crash somewhere behind him. Latreus squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and then tossed his cig off the roof. By the time he had swung his hooves over the battlements and stood, the Omniaudience’s envoy had managed to untangle himself from the series of guidewires that supported the prison’s communication tower. His visitor fluttered his wings once, twice, and then folded them against his back; he then paused to flick a speck of dust off his shoulder. It wasn’t exactly dust, but you probably get the general direction of the conceit by this point. Latreus squinted for a moment until recognition dawned. He sighed. (Sort of.) Latreus was big on sighing these days.

“Hail, Brukheim,” he said at last. “You are looking… well.” This last was a sad attempt to walk the rather precariously thin line separating diplomacy from truthfulness.

The vate completely missed the calibration. “‘Sup, homie. It’s Bruce these days. Fits, don’t it? This is an era for Bruces and Hanks and such, I think. And I’m looking like a ridiculous slob. It’s glorious, isn’t it?” The envoy spun in a slow circle, arms wide.

It was certainly… something, Latreus decided. All servants of the Nine got rendered sub specie temporis nostri as they played their wards, but Brukheim seemed to have become very involved in his most recent assignment. In the pair of centuries since he’d last seen his coworker, he had ballooned impressively. His enormous belly was covered in a filthy t-shirt emblazoned with a syringe covered in an angry red slash mark; the words “My Body, My Choice” were written in red, white and blue bunting and festooned with stars and a rather improbable flock of eagles flying majestically in formation. His jeans were torn to make room for the armored plates that covered what would have been his knees had he been human. A wispy goatee, large belt buckle, and red trucker hat completed the ensemble. Latreus’ feelings of incompetence grew by the moment. Brukheim – Bruce – seemed to pick up on this and made calming gestures with his hands as he approached.

“I hit the jackpot this time around, Larry. You wouldn’t believe my horse. Guy’s not even thirty, lives on disability. Spends all day watching Newsmax and blasting out tweets. With a little help I’ve turned him into a fly buzzing about in service of the Trumpenkulturkampf, refusing to be swatted. I barely have to do anything, save for maybe whispering ‘Tucker Carlson’ or ‘Infowars’ in his ear from time to time. Two minutes’ exposure and he’s off to the blaboshpere, trying to own the Libs. I haven’t had an easier time of it since all of that Wordsworth-slash-Coleridge rot. Anyways, he’s certainly better than those two minnows we got saddled with last chorus. What was that nonsense they were always getting on about?”

Latreus remembered the pair, poor lads on scholarship at Merton. “Tractarians, they were,” he answered wistfully. “Yours was writing a thesis on Freneau’s ‘The House of Night’, mine on William Cullen Bryant’s ‘Thanatopsis’.”

“Those were the days. Both got exactly what they’d wanted, didn’t they?” Brukheim laughed. Latreus frowned, recalling both had been tubercular and had managed to shuffle off this particular plane before the age of twenty-five. He was also big on frowns these days, was our Latreus. A new thought suddenly occurred to him.

“I would have thought someone would have told me if you’d joined the Convocation of Melpomene.”

“Who said anything about tragedy? No, lad, that’s not my speed. I’m still throwing in my lot with Team Thalia.”

“I see,” Latreus responded, not really seeing. “I guess I didn’t realize the portfolio for political propaganda had been shifted entirely into the dominion of comedy.” His tail twitched in irritation.

“Oh, that happened in 2016, no real doubts about that. Everything has become farce, now. We tried to tell you that this was inevitable, didn’t we?” Bruce responded as he took a moment to survey his surroundings. “Son of Cronus, this place looks like an immense concrete wart. Still, I’ve done prison work before. It’s usually not too trying.” Seeing the look of shame on Latreus’ face he clapped the satyr on the shoulder. “But there are always complexities. That’s what we are here for, yeah? Let’s go take a gander at your boy.”

“This way,” Latreus waved towards the southern end of the building. “Follow me.”

Anyone with the right kind of eyes (or the wrong kind of mental defect) would have seen the pair walk right through a concrete wall and onto the roof of a covered walkway. The guard stationed in a nearby tower certainly did not – though to be fair it’s hard to see much of anything when one is asleep. As it was, the only sentiences that noted their passage were a pair of crows and one of the prison’s feral cats. The crows bobbed their heads respectfully, being crows. The cat gave serious thought to eviscerating the lot of them, being a cat. Before it could calculate its chances of a successful ankle-clawing, the muses’ servants walked through another wall and were lost to sight.

The crows conferred for a moment before turning towards the cat, which had used their moment of inattention to creep closer.

“Oy, fluffykins,” left-crow said. “What did the passive-aggressive raven say to the pesky mockingbird?”

“Come down closer and I’ll surely tell you,” it replied.

The crow on the right sighed in grand, dramatic fashion and then muttered: “Never mind.” Both cawed uproariously and then flew away.

“Idiots,” the cat declared to itself – a most unnecessary comment, since everyone knows this is what cats think about everyone not them.

Inside the prison, Bruce and Latreus walked down a long hallway, then directly through a grimily bewindowed security checkpoint into a small passage. This wing was packed with small cells, each bracketed by a solid steel door and a small viewing window made of thick tempered glass. Bruce peered into a few of these as they progressed down the corridor, a frown growing on his face as he took in his surroundings. Noting his companion’s visage, Latreus turned. “Not how it used to be, is it?”

“Not at all!” boomed the vate. “Where are the shaded courtyards fit for confederating? Where the clever chef baking steel implements within his wares? The scamp with a quick eye and quicker hand? This is naught but a series of oubliettes, man!”

“This is how they do it now. At least for those that report about what they have seen.”

“I begin to discern the problem. No wonder you look so… well… at least skinny jeans would fit you, yeah?”

“Well… yes. Come, we’re nearly there,” the satyr replied, striding ahead to cover his annoyance. He soon made a sharp turn through a wall. Bruce followed him through into a small, poorly-lit enclosure. It was a simple space, consisting of a metal bunk, a piece of iron jutting out from the wall that passed for a desk, and a stainless steel toilet/sink combo. A calendar was taped to one wall, next to a photograph carefully cut from a magazine showing the Alps in winter. A man of medium build and with a shaved head sat cross-legged on a thin mattress, a book open before him. Bruce took a few steps from the cell’s door to the bunk, paused, and then stepped back to the door. He looked through the little window, frowned, and then spun around to face the interior of the cell.

“Okay, not much to work with here, I grant you. When does he go to recreation? To work? I need to take a full accounting of the cast and additional settings.”

Latreus shook his head. “There are no additional settings. There is a rec period, but they make them recreate alone. They eat in the cell. They won’t allow him to work. As far as the dramatis personae goes, his neighbor to the left hasn’t said a word to anyone since he moved in four months ago, and the one to the right barks and growls like a dog whenever anyone walks down the run.”

Bruce brightened at this. “Well, now: surely your ward could do something with that, yes? Some kind of righteous indignation piece about how the mentally ill are treated. Doesn’t exactly evoke the kinds of sentiments Marvell wrote about. But the lefties would eat it up. Social injustice is hot these days.”

“He’s tried that already. Actually, he’s written about that sort of thing since the very beginning. I think most of his readers believe he is prone to over-exaggeration. Or maybe they just feel impotent in the face of State injustice. I don’t know. Genuine lefties don’t seem to be very frequent visitors in his life. Somehow people seem to have become convinced that posting things on social media qualifies as activism – that this means they’ve actually done something in the real world. In practical terms, he very much feels like he’s been talking to the winds.”

Bruce approached the inmate until he stood next to the bed. Leaning over, he took a deep, noisy breath of the air directly over the book the man was reading. A lightly glowing amaranth-colored smoke began to lift off the page and spiral upwards into Bruce’s nostrils. The vate commenced to smack his lips a few times before coughing ash out of his mouth.

“Pan’s hairy backside: Lysander Spooner. Haven’t tasted that one in ages,” he paused, glancing about the room. “He one of those black flag types? I don’t see any of the signs.”

“Not at all,” Latreus replied. “If anything, the pandemic caused him to become even more suspicious of libertarians and anyone who uses the words ‘freedom’ or ‘liberty’ in any sentence that ends in an exclamation mark. He’s just… thorough, I guess. He tests his beliefs from as many angles as he can.”

“Seeker type,” mused Bruce. “I do so hate a bloody seeker. They can’t ever just make a decision and stick to it.” He took a deep breath and then climbed up on the mattress, towering over the prisoner. “There’s naught for it, then. Let’s see what we’ve got here for an inscape.” The vate closed his eyes for a moment and whispered the first words of an ancient invocation. When he opened them moments later, limpid light exploded from them as if someone had thrown open the door to a blast furnace. Had either of the crows been present, they would have noticed that, for the first time, both mythoi cast shadows on the gray concrete walls, and that despite the fact that both figures were barely moving, the shadows seemed to be leaping and prancing about, as if involved in an elaborate dance. Bruce lifted both hands over the inmate’s head, and made some delicate sweeping motions with his fingers, as if seeking to pluck the strings of an invisible harp. They quested about for perhaps thirty seconds before he abruptly ended the ceremony with a frustrated swipe of his hand. The eerie light show cut off immediately.

“Gods above and below, man, where are you ficelles?”

“I’m telling you they don’t stay attached anymore,” Latreus moaned miserably. “It’s like a wind disconnects them every time I turn my back.”

Bruce took a step backwards from the prisoner and then dropped down to sit atop the man’s homemade pillow. He propped his heavy head up on his knees for a moment, looking curiously at the reading figure before him.

“Okay,” he said finally, clearly rallying his energies. “We work the checklist. That’s what it’s there for, right? I’ve handled better nihilists and cynics than this one, I tell you!” He hopped up from his perch and began to pace the small space: three steps from door to bed. “Okay! Right! What’s been the primary motivating factor for mankind to do pretty much anything since they first crawled down from the trees? Before that, technically.”

“Women.”

“Bingo!” Bruce exclaimed, his hands clapping together. Seeing the miserable look on Latreus’ face he paused. “What, no women?!”

“Dude,” Latreus waved his arms around him, as if presenting the prison to his attention.

“Larry, they have this thing called the internet – you may have heard of it, even down here. It’s like the agora times a bazillion. It’s raining females out there.”

“He has a website. I helped impel him to start it.”

“Well, man?”

“I don’t know,” Latreus moaned. “The internet is a strange place. He gets hits. People sometimes respond to him, but only in the most superficial of ways. But you can only write about the same horrors for so long before one starts to believe there is just too much pathos in autobiography. There has to be a reaction to journalism, or all of the darkness just… normalizes… in some way that numbs you out completely. It’s like someone started a war and he’s been trying to put a camera on it but nobody cares. Now he only wants to write weird science fiction pieces with hidden messages or stories where the protagonist kills himself at the denouement. Not exactly chickbait, you know?”

“Well, you could try –”

“I’ve done everything, I tell you. He’s tried pen pal sites a few times, but that only ever brings him drama, which he detests. He’s almost to the point where he no longer believes in normal people anymore. Plus, after more than fifteen years in solitary confinement, his social skills make the Scylla look like Emily Post.”

Bruce worked his jaw for a moment, as if trying to chew his way toward an accurate comprehension of that metaphor. “Okay,” he said at last. “No women. Number two on the list is always gold.”

“There’s no loot,” Latreus said with a snort.

Bruce stopped pacing. “You could set up a –”

“Tried it.”

“Or a –”

“That too. He’s not talented enough, in any case.”

Bruce seemed to visibly wilt. He proceeded towards Latreus and slumped down the wall to sit by his side. “Next thing you are going to tell me is that fame and notoriety are right out of the question.”

“Not a bit’ve it. Infamy, maybe.”

“There are people attracted to infamy. We could –”

“He detests people like that. In any case, he’s in this cell presently because of the attention, which is what both fame and infamy translate to in the penal mindset.”

Bruce was silent for a time. “I see why you look so harried now. There’s simply no gear connecting labor and reward.”

“The traditional incentives don’t apply here,” Latreus responded, then looked up at his human. “They never have, because there is no reward possible.”

“But you said in your report and request for succor that he’d had a long career before this recent weird spell? What powered him then?”

Latreus slowly raised himself from the floor and walked towards his ward. He looked down at him for a long moment, and then ran a finger lightly across his cheek. The prisoner absentmindedly brushed his hand over the side of his face, his eyes never leaving his tome. Latreus then lifted his hand and hooked a finger over the man’s head, making a slow waving motion. Almost immediately a vanishingly thin cyan line appeared in the air, running from the center of the inmate’s head and continuing straight upwards to – well, not even the Muses themselves knew what resided at the Source.

Bruce leapt up and squeezed in next to his peer, face pressed close to the wavering tether. “What is that? Why didn’t I feel it?” He ran his finger along the ficelle, then closed his eyes and tilted his right ear towards the prisoner.

“You missed it because you’ve been hanging around rabid individualists. This is his belief that he was participating in a greater good, a project that would lessen the overall quotient of pain and misery in the world.” Latreus paused, then stepped back from the bed. “That was probably mostly a fantasy, but his belief in it motivated him, the way a sugar pill can sometimes make an experiment’s participants feel better for a time. His writing felt like a form of penance, which he needed, since the State refuses to allow him any other means of redemption.” Latreus turned and sat on the mattress. “Journalism always required a communion. All such writers need some kind of connection to an audience, a line that runs through the text and binds them together experientially. A writer can go unpaid. He can be detested. He can even know that his talent is marginal. What he cannot do except in the rarest of cases is summon the creative fires for long if he feels that he is writing only for himself, especially when he views the anthologization of his experiences as performing some kind of social duty.”

“You said that his audience had disappeared.”

“Yeah… sort of. That’s the confusing thing. People drift through. The analytics software tells him that. Then they drift away. They sate themselves on free content and then… well, when a story has fifty thousand views but not a single comment – you see the problem?”

“Feels like a failure, I imagine.”

“Failure would be some troll lobbing poorly-spelled insults. Failure would be an explanation about why the story didn’t work. This is worse – this is indifference. That’s harder to know how to process. He’s a part of this group of inmate writers. They all feel the same way. That’s why so many of them have faded away over the years. He’s tried to convince them to stick it out, that posterity will find their attempts at meaning to be valuable, but what can he really say? The writers weren’t asking the audience for much. A few minutes at most to post a comment. That would have kept some of them plugging away at their craft. I mean, these guys face real consequences for the things they write about sometimes. They get cases, they get stuck in solitary. Some inmates resent them for telling the truth about things they’d rather the public not know about. Very few people in the freeworld would be willing to risk these dangers over a principle. And they can’t even reciprocate in the tiniest way? You see why my job sucks,” Latreus moaned, burying his face in his hands.

“This is a long way from the days when Bards were considered important,” Bruce said, trying to console his friend.

“A real writer at least receives monetary compensation for his work. The critics may have hated a book, but at least he can pay some bills. That’s not the model here. Every year his editor assigns him the task of writing an essay begging and pleading with the readership to get involved, to maybe pitch in a few bucks to keep the project operating. They need the money, but more than that, they need the affirmation that the donation signifies. After all of this time, after all of those tens of thousands of words, they only have a single recurring donor – who is on the site’s staff. Nearly all of the funding comes from staff, actually. The audience can’t even be bothered to sign up for the Amazon Smile Program which is completely free and only takes a minute to register for. If a few dozen people would do that, they wouldn’t have to beg. Why would anyone believe that their efforts and sacrifice mean anything – anything at all – if someone isn’t willing to spend a single minute to validate the work?”

Bruce perked up a little at this. “Well, we clearly need to work on that essay. If you could but inspire a small percentage of the –”

“He’s tried everything, from complex philosophical arguments to simple stories. Now all he can think about submitting are weird stories filled with bizarre, patently two-dimensional characters that –” Latreus broke off in a fit of coughing.

“Easy there,” Bruce said, clapping him on the back. “You okay?”

“Sure, just something caught in my throat… it’s nothing. What was I saying? Oh, right, bizarre characters that have to resort to cheesy slapstick bits in the hopes that a laugh will prove to be more galvanizing than philosophical gymnastics.”

“Good luck with that,” Bruce muttered.

“Yep,” Latreus sighed again. “So,” he began after a long pause. “What do we do now?”

“Get a new audience?” Bruce offered, half in jest.

“I think we’re stuck with this one,” Latreus concluded. “I don’t suppose we could petition Hades for the loan of a few ghouls or demons for a bit? A couple of genuine hauntings might really get a few of these people in the right frame of mind to loosen the purse strings a bit.”

“Oh… about that,” Bruce said, looking embarrassed. “The RNC has the entire underworld contracted out until at least the presidential election in 2028. I seriously doubt you could outbid them, my man.”

“Bah.”

“Well, there is one thing,” Bruce mentioned, several long minutes later.

“Yeah?”

“I got a… well… let’s just call him a friend, sort of. His roommate is one of the Bacchae. This roomie, she has a side hustle selling ambrosia she nicks right off Dionysus’ table. I’m talking about the real shit here, not that knock-off crap they peddle in Troezen these days.”

“I don’t think that is going to help unleash his creative talents,” Latreus said, looking up. “In any case, he doesn’t drink alcohol these days.”

“To Tartarus with his talents! I’m talking about us getting smashed! We’ll pick up a couple of growlers and then go meet some Nymphai I know that live in a cave near a nice little grove on Mount Helicon. It’ll be epic, I promise. After you work the hangover off, we need to get you reassigned, or you’ll wither away into nothing. Come on,” he grunted as he stood, his hand held out to his friend. “Leave the worlds of the dead to the dead. There’s no future here for the living.”

Latreus took his hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his hooves. He turned to stare at his human. It was tempting to want to flee. It would certainly be easier to wash his hands of all of this, instead of having to constantly ponder difficult themes like change, punishment, and redemption. The gods knew he’d put in the hours, for very little reward. Bruce noticed his hesitation and he placed his hand on Latreus’ shoulder.

“Say your goodbyes. I’ll be up on the roof, hailing you a pegasus. Tonight will be a blast, I promise. You deserve better than all of this.”

“Yeah,” Latreus sighed, as he heard the vate’s footsteps diminish as he exited the cell. His human was still reading, taking the occasional note. It would be easy to just walk away, he thought. Some things were probably better left ignored. That would be the easiest thing. Surely the gods wouldn’t hold it against him. It was certainly true that one often paid a price for meddling with the underworld. Orpheus never made it back with Eurydice, after all. Of course, that he is remembered at all was due to his attempt. Was his love for her not the theme of the story? Who was to say who could be saved unless one tried? If one wasn’t willing to be the bridge between the living and the damned, was there any point in breathing? Latreus was suddenly gripped by a feeling of immanent epiphany, as if he knew the next few moments would help define his existence.

He stood there for a long time in the shadows, waiting for the answer to come.

Message From Dina

Where I create, there I am true

– Rilke

This fall marks my tenth year as part of the Minutes Before Six Team. I started out as a reader, searching for answers about why people commit violent acts. This was part of my healing process as the victim of a violent crime. Thomas Whitaker was the sole writer at the time I came upon MB6 and I was deeply moved by his words and ideas and felt we were exploring the same questions. I began writing to him and sharing with him the works of other prison writers that I found to be compelling. During a visit in the fall of 2011, we discussed the idea of inviting new writers to contribute to MB6 and Thomas asked me to join the project he had founded to manage this effort. I have since watched Minutes Before Six bloom, expanding to include the work hundreds of incarcerated writers and artists serving a variety of sentences from all over the United States. Many of these man and women have become my friends and I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know their families, following their journeys, and cheering their successes, including releases and homecomings, graduations, and winning awards. Losses suffered have been mighty too. Close friends have been executed and very worthy men and women have been turned down for parole and lost appeals. Heartbreak is part of this work – but so is joy. MB6 continues to be an incredible learning experience, a path that I am very grateful to be on.

Our generous donors make our efforts possible, and we thank them from the bottoms of our hearts! With enormous gratitude, I thank our awesome volunteer team, people from all over the world who tirelessly take in typing and editing jobs and turn them into publish-ready posts quickly and, even better, cheerfully. Their dedication, positive attitudes and warm hearts remind me constantly that Minutes Before Six is a labor of love, a unique project that I am lucky to be a part of. The commitment of our Board of Directors has been the foundation of our growth and success as a nonprofit project, and for this I thank them. I have great admiration, appreciation and love for my fellow admin team members and creative consultants, who keep the wheels turning at MB6 and teach me new things on the regular. And a million thanks to Teri, my partner on MB6 and one of my very best friends in the world, someone that I and MB6 literally could not function without. All good things on this project have her fingerprints on them.

Your support of Minutes Before Six make it possible for our project to continue. Please consider making a donation to fuel our work.

Thank you and happy holidays –

Dina

Message From Teri

It’s likely most of you reading this will have no idea who I am and you’re probably wondering, quite reasonably, why on earth I’d be writing an end of year message for MB6… To be honest, I usually – and very happily – keep a pretty low profile behind the scenes, as I’m far more comfortable out of the spotlight; my preference is to leave the writing to our creative force of contributors and our far more inspirational and articulate Executive Director. However, this year, Dina has encouraged me to come out of the shadows to finally introduce myself and help give thanks to those who make MB6 possible…

For background, I first came across MB6 in 2017, while I was studying for a Master’s in Criminology and Criminal Justice. So impressed by the talents being showcased on the website, and seeing a post calling for new volunteers, it didn’t take me long until I reached out to both Thomas and Dina to offer my support. Being from and living in Australia, I wasn’t really sure what value I could add exactly, but I definitely knew I wanted to be part of this incredible work. Sign. Me. Up!

Understandably a little cautious of this (upon reflection, probably frighteningly enthusiastic) stranger from the other side of the world initially, I’m so grateful that I was welcomed into the team – at that time by Dina, Thomas, and Steve, specifically – in no time at all. Since then, we’ve not only achieved so much for the project together, but I consider myself immensely fortunate to now also have each of them as a friend. I cannot express just how appreciative I am of them and all they do to ensure the success of MB6 (including putting up with me!)…

Speaking of great people I’ve met through MB6, I’d be remiss not to mention and praise the other amazing MB6 Directors Dina and I have the pleasure working with. Their wisdom and experience provide much-needed guidance to the organisation, and we are indebted to them for their invaluable contributions to making MB6 all that it is. Thank you, ladies.

Shout-outs must also be given to the enormously talented writers and artists we get to collaborate with. Without them, obviously, MB6 would not exist. So, big props have to go to those who continuously give their time and energy to make sure we always have quality content to share with our readership. I cannot overstate just how proud I am to be associated with the calibre of creativity on offer from our contributors, nor can I emphasis enough the value there is in what they are willing to share. Their voices are important and need to be heard. (However, these certainly don’t need to be one-sided conversations – more feedback and comments being left on posts would definitely be welcomed!!)

MB6 also wouldn’t be what it is without our awesome volunteers. It’s so wonderful to have such a dedicated team of like-minded people from around the globe who are willing to give up their spare time to work with us. Thank you all for everything you do, we’d be lost without you! Or, as we’d say in Australia, “You’re a bunch of bloody legends!!” 

Finally, I must give a massive thank you to all of those of you who have kindly donated financially to MB6 this past year. It never ceases to amaze me the generosity some individuals can demonstrate. From our volunteers who already give their time and expertise making donations, to our contributors who already give so much of themselves in their writing and art being willing to send what money they can despite having so little. It is truly heart-warming and humanity-affirming. There is so much more that goes into running MB6 than I originally anticipated before joining the team, so receiving this kind of recognition and support is much-needed and helps to keep us going, both figuratively and literally.

Hoping everyone has a fabulous time this holiday season!
Best,
Teri

Minutes Before Six relies on the kindness and generosity of its supporters. Financial contributions to assist us in our work can be made via check or our PayPal account.

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We are also registered with Amazon’s “Smile” program. This means you can nominate Minutes Before Six as your preferred charity on Amazon’s alternate website – smile.amazon.com – which, don’t worry, hosts all of the same sellers and products as the regular Amazon website. Then any purchases you make will result in a small donation being granted to us at no additional cost to you. So, if you shop with Amazon, please consider setting this up using this link.

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