Caged In Publishing

My name is Eric E. Humes Jr. I am serving multiple life sentences at the Colorado State Penitentiary. This blog is for sharing my thoughts, life-long learnings, and insights into the American prison system.

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Turf Vultures

Please check out my newest short store, Turf Vultures, on WattPad. Part 1 has been posted, and Part 2 will be posted in two weeks. Please support my GoFundMe campaign to help me become a self-published author.

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Mile High Madness: 8 Years Before Prison | Part 2

Bundles wanted to know if Beans was serious, so he asked him straight out: "Aye, my nigg, you wanna holla at Mos 'bout what we were talkin' 'bout?"

Without hesitation, Beans said "fuck yeah."

Mos wanted to know what these two were talking about. He asked, "what the fuck y'all two niggas plottin' on?" Mos always felt like people were plotting to get him when, in fact, these two just wanted to get on.

Bundles took a deep breath and, just like a job interview, he knew that he had to sell himself. "Mos, look - we've been grinding for you for months and we saved up some change an' wanted to know if we can go in on the next batch?" He let out a long breath - he hadn't exhaled the whole time he'd spoken.

Mos looked at the ground, pondering the idea before he asked, "so what 'bout my work?"

This question didn't sit well with them, but they had known it was coming. The fact that he had even asked insulted their intelligence, but they weren't going to trip off of nothing.

"Look, homie, you think jus' because we get work we ain't gonna still push yours?" Bundles asked with a twisted face.

Mos looked at Beans who just stared on. "Naw, I wasn't thinking like that." He tried to justify himself, but both Bundles and Beans could sense the lie.

"Well, look at it like this - you'll get more product with less of yo' money," Bundles said, making sense of the whole thing.

Mos thought about it and said, "yeah, that makes sense. Let me go make a call. How much bread y'all got?"

"15 meat rolls," Bundles blurted out.

Mos was surprised and happy that his young soldiers were stepping up. He only wished his other trap workers were like them. He walked into the next room to make the call. In less than ten minutes, he came back into the room and said, "Bundles, you drive. Beans, you ride shotgun - I'll sit in the back. I'll let you know where to go. Let me get that bread and we going to go all the way up." Mos was like a kid on Christmas morning.

For Mos, this was a big deal for him because this was his first time copping three bricks. This meant that the connect was real pleased to hear that his order was bigger than the last one.

After Mos told Bundles where to go, they pulled up to the barber shop on 23rd and Dexter in Park Hill. The area was quiet to the naked eye, but inside that barber shop, fools were gettin' money.

Beans let Mos out. "Bundles, drive around the block - by the time you get back, we'll be ready," he said.

Bundles did as he was told. He drove around the block just as he was instructed, but what he turned onto was a corner where all the Bloods were chilling. These were the young ones that enforced the hood when they didn't recognize a vehicle - all eyes were on them.

He didn't want to speed around the block, but he also didn't want to make a sudden speed-off either. He kept on driving, letting the group fade in his rear-view.

Meanwhile, Beans sat in the passenger seat, gripping a black FN 5.7 with a stock twenty round magazine. He was happy to bring the pistol that shot AR bullets well enough to clear out a house.

Bundles watched the rear-view as he turned the corner - it was as if time had been moving in slow motion. It seemed like there were Bloods on every corner. He finally made it back to the barber shop and just like Mos said, as soon as Bundles pulled up, he was coming out of what appeared to be a barber's kit box. Mos climbed into the back seat.

As he was about to pull off from the block, a cherry-red Cadillac CTS wagon with tinted-out windows pulled up on their side - before they could let the windows down, Beans let off: BOC! BOC! BOC!

The FN roared like a lion in the jungle.

Bundles' heart skipped a beat. He mashed on the gas and the Camaro burned rubber before fishtailing down the street which started filling up with people as they came out of their houses and stores. That was when he looked in the rear-view and saw the cherry-red Caddy on his tail. Suddenly, he realized that it was an undercover police car.

They gave chase until they finally had them blocked in.

Mos said, "damn, I'mma 'bout to go right back to prison."

"No you ain't, big homie - I got this. This'll be my first felony and they ain't gonna give me nothing for no brick." He sounded so confident, but unknown to him, he was about to cop out to three bricks.

When the police finally had them all arrested and sitting on the curb, one officer, who was black as night, came walking in front of them, waving the barber shop kit in front of their faces. "So, who does this belong to?"

Without hesitation, Bundles said, "me, sir."

"And this?" The officer held up the FN 5.7.

"That's mine," Beans said.

"So, none of this shit belongs to notorious Animosity - that's what y'all stickin' to?"

Bundles and Beans said "yup" simultaneously.

"Alright, then take these dumb niggas down and let this dumb nigga go."

Before Mos took off, he mouthed the words I got y'all.

Bundles ended up getting fifteen years, and Beans plead out to an unauthorized possession of a firearm. 8 years later, Bobbi "Bundles" Joseph was set to be released from prison.

Stay tuned for the next instalment of Mile High Madness: 8 Years Before Prison.

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Mile High Madness: 8 Years Before Prison | Part 1

The following is the first chapter to Mile High Madness: 8 Years Before Prison, a prequel miniseries to my first novel, Mile High Madness. Please consider visiting my GoFundMe - any contributions will help me to achieve my goal of becoming a published author.

~*~

"Bundles, my nigga, you've been standin' at that window fo' hours. What's up with yo' ass?" a raspy voice asked. Bundles looked back at his homeboy. A nervous smile crept across his face. He was hoping that his boy wouldn't notice, but with all the fiends lined up, waiting to get served — this was the first week that all the traffic made him feel uneasy.

He said, nervously, "Beans, my dude, you know why I've been standing at this window?" His boy looked at him, waiting for the answer. He didn't know. Bundles continued: "It's because this spot has been crackin' like neva befo'." He cut into a laugh.

"Yeah, my nigg, this work that this nigga Mos has — it's the shit," Beans stated.

Animosity (better known in short as 'Mos') ran this trap house. These were his workers; he had elevated them to watch over his drug operations. Out of all his traps, this one had become the most lucrative — and he had them to thank.

Time after time, Bundles opened the pre-made slot in the window. The money came in, and the crack went out. Bundles said, "My dude, you have to call that fool Mos. We need to re-up — we runnin' low." Beans nodded his head in agreement. Twenty minutes later, they were fresh out of work. Now all they could do was close up shop, which Bundles did. He said to the fiends, "come back in an hour," and they finished up. Bundles could hear the disgruntled voices of the fiends as they walked away.

Bundles was dipped out in a white Gucci T-shirt, grey Gucci jeans, and a pair of black Jordan Retros. His hair was neatly cornrowed to the back of his head where they just barely kissed the nape of his neck. Beans, on the other hand, wore a fitted white Denver Nuggets hat, a purple YSL sweater, black True Religion jeans, and a pair of Dior sneakers.

The time had crept on them since they last spoke with Mos — the sun had started to burglarize the trap house of its darkness. While they waited, they counted up the money while discussing their desire to get in on the game with their own money. That way, they could start making moves, too.

An hour later, Mos pulled up in his black-on-black 2012 Camaro ZL1. The spot on 11th and Akron in Aurora, Colorado looked as though the trap was still cracking. The fiends were loitering around, looking forward to when the trap was going to open back up. Recognizing Mos' car, the fiends started to walk up to his ride. Mos didn't like the way that the fiends bombarded his space when he got out the car — they didn't do it intentionally, they were just on some junkie shit. But their dirty clothes and unwashed skin had Mos turning up his nose at their God-awful scent. Eventually, he couldn't take the stench any longer.

He said, "Back da fuck up an' let a nigga breathe." As he was speaking, the door to the trap opened. Bundles emerged from the house.

He barked at the fiends, "Aye, aye..." All of the fiends turned their attention to him. As they saw the scowl of frustration on his face, they knew to get the fuck out of dodge. They had seen him in action before — they knew his wrath was brutal.

Beans was a real hulk of a man. In his booming voice, he said, "Y'all ma'fuckaz makin' shit hot. We told y'all to move aroun' an' y'all still here. Now, if we shit this bitch down, then what the fuck y'all gonna do?" He didn't hold back as he scolded the fiends for the simple fact that he had no respect for them. They were cattle — only there to line his pockets with money.

As the fiends dispersed, all three men entered the house and took their seats. Mos looked around at the clean trap house. It had been lightly decorated. He liked how these youngsters got down — his other trap houses certainly looked like a place to score crack. The only reason why people knew that this place was a spot was because of the fiends.

Mos became anxious as he sat in front of a 72-inch plasma-screen TV. He got right to business: "So, how much did we bring in?" That was the one thing about Mos; he may dress in four-hundred-dollar shirts and jeans, or wear big diamond studs in his ears, but he was about his paper. That's one of the reasons why Bundles and Beans wanted to mess with him — it was because of the work. Plus, he was the only one who had given them a chance.

Beans felt good that they decided to count the money up before Mos got there. He said, "My nigg, we pulled in ten meatrolls." That meant ten thousand dollars.

"Did y'all take out y'all twenty percent?" Mos asked, not looking at the youngsters — he already knew the answer.

"Naw," Beans said. "We were waiting for you."

That's one thing he liked about them: they always waited for him before they took their cut.

"Well, alright. Take yo' cut out," Mos said.

Bundles separated two meatrolls from the stack and handed the rest over to Mos, who, without counting it, stuck the rest in his pocket. Bundles then looked at Beans; he knew what that look meant. They were going to ask Mos how they could get in.

Stay tuned for the next instalment of Mile High Madness: 8 Years Before Prison.

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November 20th, 2023

In my travels through life, I've come to realize that a lot of issues I suffer from come from the traumatic experiences of life itself. At the young age of four, I witnessed domestic violence, child abuse (some of which landed me in the hospital) -- I was displaced from life at an early age. As I've gotten older, I did blame everyone for my faults.

But when you're confined and you're forced to look at yourself through these concrete mirrors, it is a constant reminder that you messed up. And it's no one's fault but your own.

How do you admit that to someone if you can't admit it to yourself?

My aunt taught me the rights and wrongs of life, but because the wrongs were never explained to me, I became rebellious -- I became everything that was dished out to me. I punished women for the actions of my mother. I bullied the weak because I was bullied by my father. I took all the bad things that happened to me and used it to treat other people who really loved me messed up. So now I sit alone in prison, remaking myself and trying to apologize to as many people as I can so that I can sleep at night; and there are a lot of sleepless nights.

When I found out that I had mental health issues, I was already into my second decade of my prison sentence. That was a heavy blow because of the stigma that surrounds it. It's not something loosely or easily talked about.

But I am willing to face this thing head on. I don't know how bad I am -- but for me to like or enjoy being locked in solitary, that shows how bad it is and can be. Some prisoners in here cannot take the solitude because their minds drift in and out of the wrongs they've done and they can't be alone with their own thoughts. So sometimes you will get sudden outbursts from them, which means that they will be forcefully removed from their cells and taken off to the hole, which administration calls "restrictive housing."

This can be further damaging to the mind. Mentally ill people are trapped in a system that's incapable of delivering the long-term care that many prisoners need.

I've begun my mental health healing journey by hearing and reading stories about famous people overcoming their battles, such as tennis champion Naomi Osaka and NBA player Kevin Love.

So with the little things I've done, I've tried and reached out to as many people to whom I've caused discomfort. I've even started writing urban fiction novels as part of the process. Finding a hobby sometimes is the best therapy -- don't take my word for it, though; I have no degree in this field.

I want to thank you for taking the time out to read my blog. I will be sharing short stories and a little bit more about myself and my growth. So be on the lookout for my first urban novel later next year! Have a good day and a blessed week.

From Eric Humes -- Caged In Publishing

Eric Humes #119468 CSP POBOX 777 Cañon City, CO 81215 USA

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October 22nd, 2023

Have you ever risen from sleep and wondered why your heart aches; why it yearns for something it can't have? Like some peace of mind, or friendship, or an answer to why you've treated people rotten. Maybe it's simply why at times you feel lonely? As I write this, I still haven't found those answers.

I've been sitting in a cell for the last twenty years, trying to figure out the answers to some of those questions.

My name is Eric Emmanuel Humes Jr. I'm a 48-year-old man, serving multiple life sentences without the possibility of parole, in addition to an added 81 years to be served consecutively.

As I dig back into my past, I can say that I've dealt with physical and emotional abuse as a child, which led to drug abuse as an adult. I was passed around to various family members because when one couldn't handle me, they would send me to the next one in line. Not once has anyone asked what's going on with me. Even if they did, I wouldn't have been able to tell them because I didn't know.

With the fading years of my life, I think I finally found out. I think that I am mentally unstable -- something that I likely will never be able to receive a diagnosis for because the Colorado Department of Corrections fails us in our mental wellness every day. When we're dealing with these internal issues that we don't have the language to describe, we're on our own. I'd certainly like to know what's going on with me.

In the coming weeks, I will talk about the mental health challenges in the Colorado Prison System, and I invite you to ask any questions that you might have. They'll be delivered to me by email and I'll be able to respond -- I only ask that there be no questions about my conviction, seeing as how I'm still currently in litigation with the court system.

Thank you for taking the time out to read this brief introduction to the Two Weeks Blog.

Sincerely,

Eric E. Humes Jr. #119468 Colorado State Penitentiary POBOX 777 Cañon City, CO 81215 USA