In a stack of submissions to Beyond Bars, some pieces of mail look like typical business correspondence: white envelopes, typed bios, and a couple of poems or a short story, also typed. Some contain hand-drawn art and essays in pencil and occasionally, there will be something surprising, like a large manila envelope decorated with felt-tip marker, a kaleidoscope of abstractions like stained glass, the thick pile of art and fiction within barely contained.

On many letters, a DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS stamp is emblazoned across the envelope. However, the stamped envelopes are never identical – either by stamper’s haste, quality of ink, or institutional variance – and this reality of difference, in all its possibility, breathes life into each letter. Because Beyond Bars endeavors to amplify the voices of those who are (and have been) incarcerated, our submission process is largely reliant on the postal service for communication. Most literary journals receive submissions electronically and for good reason; snail mail moves at a glacial pace. However, the artists who submit their work to Beyond Bars do not have the luxury of 24-hour high-speed wireless. Their mail arrives with urgency unlike the flat homogeneity of digital correspondences. When I open a submission to find a bio in pencil and longhand poetry carefully written across graph paper, I cannot ignore the humanity on the other side of the process. We hold the same page, separated by a week or two.

Submissions we receive illustrate the process of creating art in confinement.

Our submissions sometimes arrive with coffee stains and scratched-out errors. Unable to re-type a story for lack of paper or opportunity, some writers cross out paragraphs they no longer want and provide editorial notes to guide readers through their narrative. Some writers include photos, unsure if they are required. We receive quite a few letters of inquiry, too. People want to know if they can submit work that is not about incarceration (yes, please); they want to know if they can submit a fiction piece and a poem (yes, please); and, they often want to know how when they will hear back from us (as soon as possible, I promise). I am astounded by the willingness of so many to share their creative work, to see a call for submissions and write it all out, send it to a stranger, and hope for a response. What courage to shoot a flare into the night sky, to create art in the carceral system and attempt to share it beyond those walls.

Submissions we receive illustrate the process of creating art in confinement; they thrum with the energy of makeshift ingenuity. This mail is a crucial reminder that incarcerated people are not a monolith. They are easy to ignore – out of sight, out of mind – and disconnected from society. With each new submission, this underserved population looks less like a pie slice on an indifferent chart and more like individuals with unique stories, possessing talent, skill, and creativity. Like snowflakes or fingerprints, submissions to Beyond Bars are beautifully human.

About The Author:

Nellie Cox (she/her) is a poetry PhD student at GSU and poetry editor at Beyond Bars. Her poetry explores the doomsday cult of her youth in Long Beach, California, and the patriarchal mechanisms of high-control fundamentalism. Her work can be found in Jet Fuel Review, Underwood Press, and Last Resort Literary Journal, among others. When she isn’t reading or writing, Nellie can be found photographing turtles along the banks of the Chattahoochee River.