06/06/2026
The Candle on Bread
A Two-Part Short Story
Part 1
The Chicago prison cafeteria sounded like a storm trapped inside concrete. Aluminum trays scraped along bolted tables, plastic spoons clicked against stained compartments of food, and voices rose in rough currents beneath the flicker of fluorescent strips. Men in faded orange uniforms filled the room in rows, laughing too loudly, arguing too quietly, watching one another with the tired alertness of people who had learned that silence could be dangerous. The green-gray walls sweated cold. Dust hung in the hard light. Everything smelled of boiled vegetables, old metal, and locked doors.
At the far end of one table sat Mason Pike alone.
He looked like the kind of man no one should approach without a reason. His shoulders were broad enough to crowd the bench, his arms thick with dark tattoos that disappeared beneath the torn edge of his orange sleeveless uniform, and his close-cropped sandy hair made the lines of his skull seem harder. Men glanced at him and then away. Some respected him. Some feared him. Most had decided, long ago, that Mason Pike had no use for softness.
But his hands told a different story that afternoon....to be continue in the comment 👇👇👇
