PRISM international

Here it is: the story our 2025 Jacob Zilber Prize judge Christina Cooke described as “Textured and full-throated… as much capricious as it is beguiling.” Andrea Bishop’s Correspondence Rejected was the first runner-up for this year’s prize. On this vibrant piece, Cooke also says: “Correspondence Rejected… makes smart use of the epistolary form to reveal the many contours of one man’s remorse and rage. The reasons for his rage? Complicated. Bishop rightfully takes advantage of the epistolary’s confessional nature to build a voice-driven narrative… as it explores the resonant effects of a single, transformative moment.”

Enjoy,
Sophie Crocker
Promotions Editor

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Correspondence Rejected by Andrea Bishop

Dear Mrs. Turner,

I’m not sure why I did what I did, or why what happened…happened, but I’ll try and explain my part in it and maybe that will help. My psychologist recommended I write to you but didn’t give me specifics about what to say or how to say it. He seems to think this is an exercise, but I’m determined to get through to you and I’m nothing if not persistent. He did tell me finding the strength to share my remorse was the first step toward restitution. I’m not sure it’s remorse I feel, Mrs. Turner, but I am certain my crime had nothing to do with my past, no matter what the experts might try to tell us.

I have a question or two for you as well. Have you considered the actions of the bus driver? I reflect repeatedly on this part of our story. His job is unequivocal; stop the bus, let the people on, drive. But he sees me, a guy running for the bus, a client, a customer, and slows down, makes eye contact (makes eye contact, Mrs. Turner), and pulls away without letting me on. He’s the only reason I was there. He’s the only reason I was angry. Responsibility for our encounter ultimately lies with him.

My anger wasn’t aimed specifically at you. I didn’t set out to hurt you. That was just our bad luck. The first punch was a mistake. And I do apologize because at the time, even shortly afterwards, I didn’t think about you much. I have thought about you quite a bit since. Daily, in fact. I am sad you got hurt, Mrs. Turner, but I can’t say I’m sorry I got your attention.

I’m writing from the prison library, though it’s more of a museum. There’s barely a book from the 21^st century here. I sit alone at a sturdy wooden table, with room enough for eight, layered with carved initials. I know, Mrs. Turner, carved. With something sharp enough to lacerate hardwood. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. This isn’t the safest place. This has not been easy for me either.

If you stand, tiny windows high up in the thick walls reveal the upper branches of maples and oaks scattered within a grove of scraggly pines, and you can see weather in real time: sunlight, drizzle, sometimes a gathering set of clouds warning of change. It’s a reminder the outside world is transforming, while in here we’re stuck in time, replaying the same old memories, though I’ve noticed lately that memories have a funny way of re-engineering themselves.

Round mirrors in the upper corners eliminate blind spots, one of many features to deter misbehaviour but by the time you’ve earned library privileges, you’re either stupid or a nut job if you try anything. I don’t mind admitting it’s a daily struggle to get by. There’s no laughing, no singing. I don’t even talk unnecessarily. I don’t get many visitors.

We didn’t have a lot of visitors when I was a kid either, except my Aunt Betty who came by once or twice a year. Technically, she was a great-aunt, my mom’s mom’s sister. My actual grandma died before I was born. My mom never talked about her much, which I didn’t think about until it was too late.

I loved it when my aunt came. There was usually something unexpected in her car for me. One year a remote-control race car, another year a tiny indoor trampoline, but in the summer after Grade Three she pulled up in her shiny red convertible with something big wrapped in a rug in the back seat. She wore a shimmering green and orange head scarf and gripped the steering wheel with leather-gloved hands, looking like an exotic bird in a flashy circus car. After parking, she tucked the scarf carefully around her neck, and her white hair sprung tidily back into position. My Aunt Betty looked old up close, but she smelled like the first spring blossoms after snow melts.

When Aunt Betty visited, my mom wore a dress herself. She was one of the prettiest moms and I wasn’t the only kid who said so. She was also the most fun, at least, in between tired spells, she’d stay up late with me and my friends, singing, dancing. She was younger than the other moms too. Kids compare those particulars more than you’d think, Mrs. Turner, incidental details like your mom’s age, your family’s income, how tough your dad is.

Aunt Betty told my mom not to scratch the car and together they unfolded the rug and pulled out the Boys Black Beach Cruiser. That bike had a black banana seat and a chrome back rest, high handlebars, and thick side-walled tires with oversized black fenders. It could have been a motorcycle it was so fast and black and tough.

My mom and I were saving up to buy me a bike, a grass-green three-speed on display in the window of the hardware store. When we walked through town, she’d tell me how many weeks until we could bring it home. At first my mom seemed excited when my aunt brought me the Cruiser, but later, I’d catch her looking at the one in the window.

So, back then I thought my aunt was the bomb. In hindsight, I do regret where my loyalties lay. This is one of many things I’d like to set right.

Breathe, Mrs. Turner, breathe. I’ve been taught to breathe. Actually, I’m doing quite well in my anger management classes. The psychologist tells us to count to ten and after we’ve calmed, to replay the triggering incident in our minds, but this time to imagine it happening in one of our favourite places and to maintain that sense of composure while brainstorming alternate choices. I know, Mrs. Turner, and I agree, but that’s what he tells us to do.

I’ll tell you about one of my favourite places, though it’s a bit late to set things right in this particular case. Mr. McConkey’s long gone and his kids sold the place to a developer. That’s what I’ve been thinking about these days, setting things right. Making restitution.

We lived in a sky-blue bungalow right in town, rented as it turned out, but some of the older places close by still had land. After I got my bike, I could go to Mr. McConkey’s farm whenever I wanted. What a feeling, Mrs. Turner. What a thrill to make a choice about where you want to go in life and have the liberty to follow through.

To get there, I’d go past the variety store, where Mr. Cooper would sneak a clear-wrapped toffee into my palm when I picked up groceries for my mom, past brick houses that got bigger and more spread out, before the sidewalk turned to gravel and the street dead-ended into Mr. McConkey’s. Sometimes he’d be puttering in the garden, other times he’d peer out his window and give a wave, but then we’d leave each other alone to get our stuff done.

I’d hang out by the stream, or in the field out behind and wait for time to shrink and expand and after a while things that seemed important when I got there faded into the background as I got caught up in the life of the place. A cricket or ladybug would land on a blade of grass and march on up and I’d wonder why grass was green, and investigating, I might stumble across a patch of eggs I’d visit daily until out popped a hatch of grasshopper nymphs. Cutest thing ever, a hundred soft and tiny wingless baby grasshoppers. Although their numbers did dwindle fairly rapidly after birth. Snakes, Mrs. Turner.

At the start of Grade Four, Hot Johnny moved to town, though he was just John then, and I’d double him over to the farm. My mom wasn’t thrilled when I hung out with him, but he was one of the only other kids free to do whatever he wanted after school. Besides, when she was at work she didn’t really have a choice about who I hung out with.

One day we were catching minnows and shooting the shit (excuse my language, Mrs. T., but we’re either going to get to know each other or we’re not) and John started baking those fry in the sun to watch them flip, flop, rest on the ground. I bet him he couldn’t run the perimeter of the orchard in less than a minute – he’d do anything if you dared him, that guy had no limits and an endless desire to impress – and I’d slip the fish back into the water, where they’d breathe again, flick their tails, and dart away.

Mr. McConkey never minded if I picked an apple so John hopped the fence into the orchard, grabbed half-rotten fruit off the ground and threw it at me. We were both laughing, fall sun warm on our bare arms, hucking rotten apples back and forth.

Defying gravity, John shinnied up a tree so fast and bombarded me with hard, fresh apples. At first, I was kind of laughing as I told him to stop but apples flew, some with leaves and branches attached. “John. Get down. Enough.” That kid never knew when to stop.

Mr. McConkey came out, limping, and shouted, but his voice was warbly and weak, so John laughed harder. He did scramble out of the tree, but not before he pelted Mr. McConkey with a hard, fresh apple. The old man didn’t even try and avoid it; didn’t flinch as it hit him in the ribs.

Mr. McConkey dismissed John with a backward flick of his hand, but turned to me, “Do I have to call your mother? You should be ashamed with all she’s got on her plate. Go on home. And stay away for a bit.”I wanted to explain it wasn’t my idea, I’d tried to stop him, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. An apology would’ve been meaningless. So, we got back on my bike, and I pedalled us away.

When my mom put me to bed that night I knew it would alleviate my guilt if I told her, but I wasn’t sure how much trouble I’d get in. As far as I know Mr. McConkey never did call.

You know what’s great about childhood friends? You commit yourself before you’re old enough to judge a person. It’s a blind kind of loyalty. I bet you have lots of friends, Mrs. T. You seem like the kind of person who’s had good luck. Well, mostly.

I don’t have many friends in here, but I guess you could say I’ve become friends with Jeremy, the librarian. He usually has stacks of books waiting: math, ecology, philosophy, and even before I got access to the library, he’d have them delivered to my cell. I sure do miss the tickle of grass underfoot, the whisper of wings overhead, but at least now I can read about it.

I don’t have too many friends outside either. Hot Johnny had a tragic end. I’ve been trying to avoid that myself. I have people to look after when I get out. I have things to put right.

Before our moment I’d rarely been in trouble. Until I got here, I wasn’t on the receiving end of violence either. You sure could call this place violent though I’ve been wondering lately if ostracizing someone and outright hitting them are at opposite ends of the same continuum. We know they both end badly, don’t we, Mrs. T.?

When I first got here, I avoided fights. Tried to stay out of trouble. But it turns out whether you instigate the skirmish or are the one beaten to a pulp, the consequences here are the same. After the infirmary, you get hauled off to solitary. So, I can empathize with your situation a bit better now, being affected by a conflict you weren’t entirely responsible for. I’ve been told I need to come to grips with the way the world is, even if it isn’t fair. But I’ve been wondering, Mrs. T., are you ok with that?

In solitary, at first you can’t access your belongings, you have to earn them back. But Jeremy would sneak me a book or two, telling the guards library books don’t belong to anyone, so they’re technically allowed. I don’t know why he chose to do that for me but having something to distract my mind made all the difference. The psychologist tells me a child doesn’t need a big family to be okay, they only need one responsible caring adult in their life, and I bet the same goes for adults. Maybe all you need is one caring friend.

After a while, I skipped the beatings and chose solitary for a few months. For my own safety and well-being. Eventually, but it took a few years, I was commended for improved behaviour and moved out of maximum security.

I’ve been advised to communicate effectively to resolve conflict before it turns violent, but what if there’s no one to converse with? That’s one of many things I’m trying to remedy, Mrs. T. That’s one of many reasons I’d like to get through to you.

You might have kids or nieces or nephews of your own, or maybe you were a teacher so you’d know about this, but toward the end of Grade Four the school called my mom in for a meeting. She had to book an extra shift off work and wasn’t happy. She said she didn’t play at the same kind of nonsense as her co-workers and this left her both uninvited to their get-togethers and struggling to manage shift changes. We both figured I was in trouble. It must have been big for them to call my mom in but I couldn’t think of anything wrong I’d done that week.

It turned out they wanted to register me in an “enriched” class for Grade Five, which meant I’d have to switch schools. It was extra work, but my mom said she’d find a way to make it happen. “Mr. Smarty-pants,” she called me for a while, which would have been annoying except for the shine in her eye. “Our luck is finally turning. You’ll see,” she said. “You’ll meet a new group of boys. You might find you start to like school.”

She was still tired but her fun spells lasted longer, and I knew it was because of me. I didn’t want to switch schools, but I wasn’t about to take her sparkle away or risk deflating the man-sized balloon developing in my chest that pushed my shoulders out and back.

A school bus could pick me up, but not near my house. I overheard my mom call Aunt Betty to ask for help, but when that didn’t work we settled on a plan where my mom would take the city bus with me until I got used to doing it on my own.

Do you know much about hate, Mrs. Turner? Mrs. Rastow, my teacher at the new school, was mean to a few other kids too, but I got the worst of it. Usually, I shut jerks down with feigned disinterest, a few jokes, and a lot of bravado, but I couldn’t do much when the bully was my teacher.

Still, I spent the first month or so trying to please her. If she read out my crap grade, I didn’t react. When she mocked my spelling mistakes, I re-did the work. She phoned my mom and said I’d been insolent. I probably had, but only after I’d run out of other ways to handle it. Mrs. Rastow told my mom we should be especially grateful for this opportunity and not to squander it.

Mrs. Rastow moved my desk to the back, facing the wall. She’d be mean to anyone who spoke to me. It wasn’t so bad if other moms who had time to volunteer were there, but she was a cow when she was the only adult around. How’s a guy supposed to make new friends when nobody’s allowed to talk to him? My mom told me to be respectful and be the best person I could be, because I couldn’t change other people but could only change myself.

I didn’t like anything about that school. By the time the bus got me home it was too late to get to the farm. I missed my old friends. But Mrs. Rastow was the deal breaker. Even with the benefit of two decades to think this one over, I think she was the one with issues. It’s wrong to unleash someone like that on vulnerable kids.

Thanks to Jeremy, I’ve resumed my education in here. He’s even roped me into tutoring some of the new guys. Lately I’ve been reading philosophy. Did you know Socrates chose to die rather than be exiled? He was condemned for questioning the basis of morality in his society. Consider that, Mrs. Turner. For asking too many questions and provoking an otherwise unconcerned citizenry. Talk about commitment to your principles.

I’m supposed to reflect on my past. I need to manage my temper if I want an early release, but when I think back over my story, rage still does pop up. I’m learning to forgive myself for the rough parts though, and I’m working on forgiving others. They say anger is a normal, healthy emotion when you know how to express it effectively. That’s the line I’m trying to walk here, Mrs. T.

I’ll tell you about one of those rough parts now and then I’ll wrap up. I was fifteen when this happened, so experimenting with my attitude. I’m sure my mom knew I didn’t mean anything by it. At that age everyone leads a double life. At home you’re reliant and vulnerable; out in the world you’re tough and brave.

After a short stint at that new school, I’d long been back with Hot Johnny and my old friends. At home, it was mostly the same old, my mom exhausted from too much work, except this one time the gang and I were fooling around, and someone made a dare. It wasn’t shoplifting really, and was only one pack of smokes, but Mr. Cooper mumbled about respecting his property and called the cops. I don’t think my mom was even at work that day, but she didn’t retrieve me from the police station right away. So, in hindsight, it’s possible she wasn’t snapping back from these little assaults on our life as well as she had in the past.

A few months later, back at school in October of my Grade Ten year, I got called down to the principal’s office. It was easier than being in class and I didn’t mind that principal, Mr. Ryerson, either. He was friendly and never did much but talk to me helplessly. While I waited, I considered the leaves, wondering how a change in weather could cause such a show of red, orange, yellow. You’d be surprised at the details you remember when something shocking happens to you, Mrs. T.

When Mr. Ryerson finally entered, more flustered than usual, he told me my mom had “experienced an episode” and was in hospital, a unit so special I couldn’t even visit, at least not right away. My mom needed a rest. He told me Social Services was on their way to help get me settled, which sounded, justifiably as it turned out, ominous. He wondered if there was someone he could call, a friend or a relative. I considered my aunt but figured if my mom wanted her, she’d have called herself. Besides, when Aunt Betty did find out, she never did much, just the odd phone call to my foster home now and then.

As a kid, you always know your mom has your back. Well, not all moms, but my mom. She and I looked out for each other. Until then, I never thought about what was missing. Sure, I hung out with my buddies a lot, but it was always the two of us at the heart of it. We were a perfect and whole family. It did not occur to me until that moment a family of two doesn’t have a whole lot of redundancy built in.

When I finally did get to visit, my mom looked small and sedate in her blue gown. She stroked my hair, and I let her, and she whispered in my ear that everything would be okay, like she used to when I was young.

We didn’t live together again. She did get released, but by then our home was gone, and before the paperwork was even started to get me back, she’d been sent for another rest.

I’m almost out of time here in the library, so I’ll sum up. I know it wasn’t your fault, Mrs. Turner. I’m sorry you were there the same time I was. And my behaviour was inappropriate, I’ll admit that. I’d just come from a visit with my mom. She told me I was the one thing she’d been doing right and was sad she’d messed up. She apologized to me. Can you imagine that, Mrs. Turner? She thought she was the one who messed up?

She said the big vase of colourful flowers in her room were from Aunt Betty and probably cost a pretty penny too. Which surprised me. I got kind of stuck on that. All that money on flowers. Wondering if that was what my mom wanted. By then I knew I’d given my mom trouble too. But as a kid? How could I have known? I was reflecting on all of that when you and I had the misfortune of crossing paths.

I am sorry you happened to be out for your evening walk with your peppy little head scarf tucked around your neck. After numerous discussions with psychologists, I’ve come to believe you didn’t mean to look at me with derision, smirking when the bus driver saw me running, slowed down, and passed me by. I’m quite sure it’s not your fault you were so self-righteous about your comfortable life that you didn’t bother to step out of my way when I scooped up that rock to throw it at the bus. You most likely didn’t suspect you might be the one final person to discount me before I finally had enough.

I’m certain you did not consider the possibility that once I got started I might not be able to stop because the crunch of your fragile cheek bone beneath the rock still in my fist felt so right.

I believe I will continue to make restitution when and where it’s due. I’m confident that when I get out of here, I will revisit the past to right some wrongs. And I believe I am fulfilling my contract with society. So, what I’d like to know, Mrs. Turner, is, do you believe you’re fulfilling yours?

My psychologist was right. I feel like I do know you a bit better now. We’ve made good progress today. The next time I get library privileges I’ll write to you again if you don’t mind. And if my letters never get approved for delivery, if I’m unable to get my questions answered, well then maybe someday we can have this conversation in person instead.Won’t that be something to look forward to?

Sincerely,
Chris H. CSC#784532b
I Unit, M-105, Millhaven Institution, Canada

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