M Coe - New Veronia

I’m worried what will happen to me, to my brain, now that this writing and doodling will no longer occupy it, now that the story is all down in pen and it’s likely that nothing much will change for me ever again. The years of my future stretch stagnant and unending, so I carry this book around wherever it’s allowed, which has had unexpected consequences: the other inmates call me Bible Boy, and I think that’s what keeps them from messing with me too much—lots of the guys in here believe in a vengeful God. It’s a neat trick, really, to have tucked my story, this reminder of my other life, into a book that everyone pretends to respect. If this had been Shakespeare, poor doomed Hamlet and King Lear and all the rest would be in tatters across the yard by now, and I’d sport perpetual black eyes for being a theater nerd. But instead I’m left in peace to scan the margins of my bible, and the words I’ve written there remind me that I had a different life, once, that a different life is possible. Being locked up, you can forget that too easily. So I stare at my handwriting getting smaller and more cramped near the back of the book, as I come closer to running out of room, and I try to accept that this will be my whole existence.

Jail is dehumanizing, of course it is, but the way they really get you is by keeping everything unchanged. Meal times, recreation times, announcements, hygiene. Can you be a real person if you never get to decide when to shower, or are you more like a character in a play who is obligated to shower in line thirteen of scene two, night after night, forever?

The thing that really bothers me is, if life in lockup is always the same, and lockup will be my life forever, then I’ll never get to remember anything new, not ever again. The day I’m living will be the same as all the days before it, so instead of memories, they’re just routines. But to never make another memory can be a comfort, too: the only way I’m able to fall asleep at night is to chant to myself, over and over, that this right here is my forever.

One of the saddest sights in my narrow world is the breakfast tray arriving through a slot in the metal door at exactly five minutes after six. Nine minutes later, when I’m brushing my teeth, I always do it hard enough to make my gums bleed, to prove to myself that blood is still leaking through my veins, because I feel emptied out, like nothing is inside of me and nothing good will come out of me ever again. But I guess it doesn’t need to, seeing as my future is a huge pile of zilch.

The bars of my cell do this funny thing when you pace past them: they move together and apart, together and apart, and sometimes this gives me the idea that they can meld and melt, that they aren’t as solid as everyone wants to think. But that’s just looking: in my hands, they feel hard and cold as bone.

Thank you to my first and best reader, Will Cordeiro, and to Tiki “Dog” Coco for the lap warming. Also, thanks to Lawrence Lenhart for the idea and to Gavin Buckley and Jamison Crabtree for their manly insights.

Many thanks to my inspirational mentors at Cornell: Stephanie Vaughn, J. Robert Lennon, and Ernesto Quiñonez. Plus my MFA cohort, especially Laurel Lathrop, Tacey Atsitty, Benjamin Garcia, and Elizabeth Rogers.

And, of course, much gratitude to my eclectic Tucson workshop: Cybele Knowles and Ted McLoof. From my time at the University of Arizona, thank you to Donald Dunbar, Jason Brown, Manuel Muñoz, Matthew Rotando, and Elizabeth Evans. The University of Arizona Poetry Center will always be my favorite place to read—thank you to its dedicated staff and volunteers, and to Gail Browne for being the best boss.

I am indebted to Christian Soto, Andie Frances, Meredith Heller, Michelle Coe, Lara Bennett, and Christie Melnick for their support. Thank you to the Bushes and Cordeiros for acquainting me with Delaware. I am also grateful to the Averbachs and Les and Elana Hunter for a beautiful and inspirational summer space in which to write. Founding Coes, thank you for always keeping books in the house.

A huge thanks to Christoph Paul and Leza Cantoral for their editorial prowess and for wanting to publish this book in the first place, and to Matthew Revert for the excellent cover design.

M. S. Coe has stories published in Antioch Review , The Cantabrigian , Electric Literature , Cosmonauts Avenue , jmww , and elsewhere. Coe has completed writing residencies at Petrified Forest National Park, Herbert Hoover National Historic Site, and the Ora Lerman Trust’s Soaring Gardens Artist Retreat. Coe, who is based in Flagstaff, Arizona, earned an MFA from Cornell University and acts as the co-editor of Eggtooth Editions.

TRAGEDY QUEENS: STORIES INSPIRED BY LANA DEL REY & SYLVIA PLATH

Edited by Leza Cantoral

GIRL LIKE A BOMB

Autumn Christian

CENOTE CITY

Monique Quintana

99 POEMS TO CURE WHATEVER’S WRONG WITH YOU OR CREATE THE PROBLEMS YOU NEED

Sam Pink

THIS BOOK IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY MY STUDENT LOANS

Megan J. Kaleita

HEXIS

Charlene Elsby

I’M FROM NOWHERE

Lindsay Lerman

NIGHTMARES IN ECSTASY

Brendan Vidito

PAPI DOESN’T LOVE ME NO MORE

Anna Suarez

ARSENAL/SIN DOCUMENTOS

Francesco Levato

FOGHORN LEGHORN

Big Bruiser Dope Boy

TRY NOT TO THINK BAD THOUGHTS

Art by Matthew Revert

SEQUELLAND

Jay Slayton-Joslin

JAH HILLS

Unathi Slasha

GIMME THE LOOT: STORIES INSPIRED BY NOTORIOUS B.I.G

Edited by Gabino Iglesias

THE HAUNTING OF THE PARANORMAL ROMANCE AWARDS

Christoph Paul & Mandy De Sandra

DARK MOONS RISING IN A STARLESS NIGHT

Mame Bougouma Diene

TRASH PANDA

Leza Cantoral

“This coming-of-age novel, steeped in toxic masculinity and homespun rage, is as funny and disturbing as anything I’ve ever read. It’s a sex comedy, road novel, and crime thriller all in one, rendered in deft and wicked prose that recalls Vonnegut, Atwood, and O’Connor. M.S. Coe is an uproarious and terrifying new American voice.”

“ New Veronia is masterfully crafted, Lord of the Fies -esque, stunning, and deep. No line is wasted.”

“New Veronia is intense. As the early chapters develop, Coe develops complex psychological insight into the minds of and the power relations between Bennet, Toshi and Jay. The atmosphere shifts from early unease to a late terror, but a young and bungling terror wrought by teenage boys coming of age in an unforgiving milieu that, like Coe’s book, never lets up.”