The first submission by an Unbound Authors student
Joybelle Phelan founded Unbound Authors from personal experience. While incarcerated in Colorado, she discovered writing as a way to make sense of her life and imagine a future beyond it. A prison newspaper gave her a platform. When the arts program ended, that platform disappeared — for her and for everyone around her.
“What I saw then, and what I couldn’t ignore, was how many people were writing in isolation. Thoughtful, insightful work was happening all around me, but without consistent support, feedback, or pathways to grow.”
She built Unbound Authors to change that. Now recognized by the Colorado Department of Corrections as the statewide writing center, the program has supported more than 1,200 writers over three years across facilities statewide. Writers receive feedback from trained volunteers and peers, revise their work, and publish in two program journals: Messenger Quarterly and Mosaics. The model is built on a simple premise: writing is dialogue, not output.
“At its core, Unbound Authors is about building infrastructure where none existed before.”
This year, Unbound Authors submitted the work of their participants to Fair Opportunity Month, and while we can’t publish every submission, we are glad they are here. We are delighted to share Star Dog by Jeremy Moss with you to launch our month-long series.
Star Dog by Jeremy Moss
Jeremy Moss #129379[1]
CTCF 18 Dec 2025
It hasn’t been easy
Holding on
Having each day
Flee my grasp
And I fall
Backward
Out of your mind.
When I think of her
Its like an ember
On ice
To my heart
But in a bad way.
Knowing now
My insignificance
Once
Having worshiped
YOU
In the temple of my truth
At night
I’ll die
Alone
Beside a river
As a stray dog watches from the woods.
Waiting.
Wondering.
Is it safe?
A frothy foam builds upon both river bank and jowl.
The smells of the night fill the filthy dogs nose as it crouches at the edge of the forest. Its as though the stars fall to fill each inhalation with vivid whispers of night-times secrets.
Across the acidic pine trees, over the dusky dirt, the river mist, and squirrel piss; the dog can smell the man beneath the jeweled sky. He smells different from the rangers that chase the dog away from garbage cans. Unlike the campers slathered in sunscreen and bug repellent. Sadder. Saltier.
The man is a still silhouette against the slow flowing black water. The reflected stars and mirrored sliver of moon echo back the majesty of the milky way.
The dog doesn’t sense danger lurking in the dark of night. No cougars or catchers, yet there is an oppressive weight from the slouching man. There is a wonderfully divine aroma. Meat. Meaty meat. Raw and all grizzly fat. That is what drew the dog here to begin with.
The mongrel inches forward testing the ground cover. In slow motion its paws settle on dead leaves a pine needles. Silence and stealth. He learned this from watching a lynx as it hunted a grouse. With each delicate movement the sitting man grows bigger, never noticing as the dog slinks up from behind. Skittish and prepared to flee back into the protection of the trees, the dog moves forward.
Sometimes people will give him food. Sometimes really good human food. Other times they kick at him or throw rocks, but dog refuses to fetch those back for them.
Close enough now to really smell the unwashed clothes of the homeless camp and its heartache. The sitting form permeates a sour earthiness and metal.
The slumped mans hand hangs down, open as if giving the ground its gravity. The shadows of the night work their enchantments, urging the dog on. Finally, side by side he sees the source of the mans stillness.
Blood trickles in a stream from beneath a greasy flannel shirt. Droplets splashing on small stones and dirt. A handgun lays empty and cold cradled in the dead mans lap.
The dog pushes his muzzle against the stiff red palm to assure the mans spirit that its pain is over now. It was okay. As if to give a last rite, a bael, or a silent sending away. To let the man know, in this moment now, he is no longer alone nor forgotten.
The dog nudges beneath the dangling hand and slowly moves back toward the forest. Rigid fingers glide awkwardly through the dirty fir of its spine. “Good boy,” he imagines hearing the man say, “one damn good dog.”
[1] I have a 9×12 inches drawing to accompany this piece
Editor’s Note: In giving a stray dog the final act of witness in this piece, Jeremy Moss reminds us that loyalty, presence, and the refusal to let someone disappear unnoticed are not exclusively human qualities. We indeed learn together, and sometimes our teachers have four legs.
