The bruising was not unlike the fist emerging through the clenched faces, the red of freshly skinned knees, their hot bones white as blank pages. A punch and I dreamed of water and rose patches.  Friends, to whom I’m merely a target and a laugh, kicked me back to life. Their taunts broke me where I dreamed. It was neither school nor prison. I leaned … Continue reading “Lesson” by Phillipe Vicente