Daily, I am faced with various degrees of hatred and hostility.  Anger and aggression are as normal a salutation as any, while mean mugs, ice grills, and screw faces are merely grotesque masks worn to disguise the fragility of the tormented souls hidden beneath.  Tension remains tangible and paired with an air of animosity and malice.  The gift of new life seems more so burden than blessing when you awake another morning trapped in a lion’s den.

Here, in society’s pit of despair are cast the wretched, forlorn, and forsaken, thirsting for hope, longing for love.  Time here is measured by dry cries and tears of sand captured in a bottomless hourglass.  Although surrounded by men, I stand alone in corridors littered with broken spirits, blackened hearts, and tarnished dreams.  This is what life is like, trapped in a lion’s den.

To escape my fate, I seek retreat in a weekly bible study led by a courageous volunteer from the outside, one willing to wade through suffering and sorrow bearing the weight of our collective anguish just to deliver ‘the good news’.  Our mighty messenger is a beautiful, daintily built, 76-year-old motherly woman named Ms. Joyce.  This tiny five-foot giant slayer marches in every Tuesday armed with a welcoming smile, warm eyes, and the word of God. 

It is here, in the midst of this gentle spirit, that I am able to find rest as she sings, teaches and ministers from her well of wisdom and experience.  More often than not, this is the most peaceful place within this morbidly wrought dungeon.  Sometimes I wonder why she even visits such a sordid place, surrounded by murderers, thieves, conmen and worse.  Then I remember, its her ‘Christian duty’.  I am also certain she could serve that duty elsewhere – schools, hospitals, etc. – yet, Ms. Joyce finds it in her heart to remember some of society’s least mentionable, those bound in prison. 

At times, I watch in awe as she listens intently to the stories, problems and fears of men who have committed some of the most heinous acts imaginable.  Then, without judgement, she gives her best motherly and spiritual advice, hoping to comfort and correct those aching and misguided souls. 

And, yes, there are times when the dubious enter the midst, bringing mischievous distractions, whether intentional or not.  But Ms. Joyce lends them the same respectful, sincere ear and advice.  Sometimes, she also lends a sweet, sugar-coated scolding that brings a sense of humility to the simple and silly.

My favorite memory of Ms. Joyce took place one day before closing a study group.  She began singing, “I get joy when I think about… what He’s done for me…”

After singing through the chorus by herself, she stopped and said, “Okay, guys, now your turn.”

Once again, Ms. Joyce began singing, but unfortunately, she was still all on her own; not a soul joined in.  Ms. Joyce stopped again and said, “Okay, guys, now your turn.”

The words were spoken a bit more stern; sort of motherly plea and demand.  Then Ms. Joyce cranked up again, “I get joy when I think about… what He’s done for me…”

This time she got her results.  There was no way I could disappoint Ms. Joyce, so I joined in; and when I looked around, to my surprise, almost twenty cold, hardened criminals were either singing or attempting to sing about the joy they had found. 

ABOUT THE WRITER.   Carter is a thoughtful and talented writer. This piece was included in the November, 2023, newsletter and although it did not place in our most recent contest, was chosen as first by some of the judges. Carter is extremely interested in furthering his education, though opportunities are few where he is currently at and in his current situation. He continues to write and work on positive endeavors and is also a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers.

If you would like to contact Carter Cooper, please reach out to me directly.

Note: This essay was shared in the September, 2023, WITS Newsletter.

Nobody comes to prison to make friends, but it sort of happens.  I mean, when you put similar people from common backgrounds in the same struggle, bonds are naturally formed.  Especially after being isolated and alienated through extended periods of incarceration.

As humans, we are social beings, and we all desire those connections that provide us with a sense of understanding, support, and empathy.  However, due to our incarceration, previously established relationships are often strained, broken, or nonexistent.  So, it’s easy to see how friendships are formed on the ‘inside’, out of need, dependence or as a means of survival. 

Simply put, we all need someone, whether in here or out there.  And it’s easiest to relate with someone who understands you; if not you, at least your struggle.  Someone like-minded and like-hearted. 

The prison system is a world all its own, comprised of various institutions with multiple security levels, and built in the most remote locations; you can go decades without seeing the same person.  So, it goes without saying the delight I felt when I ran into an old comrade I hadn’t seen in more than ten years.

My homie, C-Lo, was a good friend from ‘back-in-the-day’, a walking memory of a former place in time, one when we were still ‘young and thuggin’.  Spending a few years together on a maximum security yard, we had once passed the majority of our time smokin’ and jokin’.  A gangster’s way of coping.

Now, fast forward eleven years, we have both matured substantially, and very much in the same aspects.  I believe we may have more in common now than we did back then.  In hopes of rekindling our friendship, we immediately requested a cell reassignment so we could be cellies.  Request granted, we began the late nights of reminiscing and catching up.  It was during these conversations that I realized I didn’t know C-Lo as well as I thought, and that we were actually ‘running partners’ more so than friends.

It was also during one of these late-night chats that I found out C-Lo had a “L” (life sentence).  Discovering this unknown fact broke my heart, knowing my brother may not get another shot at freedom without a strong fight.  Needless to say, he was equally surprised and disappointed to find out that I’d been home and returned to prison twice since we last saw each other, squandering two opportunities at a life he may never get a chance to see.  That truth made me feel extremely small and careless.

Despite our circumstances, we found the reunion to be quite pleasant.  I would entertain C-Lo with comical reentry stories and grandiose free world exploits and endeavors, as he laughed and imagined himself transitioning into a totally new world.  Sadly, after twenty-five years of incarceration, he had grown accustomed to living vicariously through others. 

In turn, C-Lo told me a year’s worth of war stories and prison news.  Although we hadn’t seen each other in all those years, we knew the same people, ran in the same circles.  Much like its revolving doors, the prison’s population was one big circulating mill.

Gossip and fishermen’s tales weren’t the only topics of discussion.  We also built on more constructive things.  Our dreams, our goals, our hopes for the future and the work we were putting in to achieve those things.  This is when I broke the news of my most recent accomplishment, one I’m super proud of.  I had become a published writer.

After reading a few of my pieces, C-Lo seemed impressed and genuinely happy for me.  Esteemed, I passed him a copy of Beneath Our Numbers, a collaborative memoir I was privileged enough to take part in.  An avid reader, C-Lo wasted no time diving in.  I knew he would enjoy it because these were our stories, told by people like us.  However, I had no idea just how close to home the stories would reach. 

One night, while doing some late-night writing, I heard a heavy sigh come from the top bunk.

“You good, cuz?” I asked.

“Yeah, just doing some reading.”

Not thinking much of it, I left C-Lo to his reading until I heard a second and equally burdensome huff of, “Damn.”

“What’s up?” I asked, a bit more concerned.

“My co-d in this book.”

C-Lo and I never spoke much about our cases or our co-defendants, and I didn’t personally know any of his; for that reason, I didn’t think much of it.  So, ‘cool’ I thought.

“Oh, yeah, which author?”

There was an odd pause.  “Nah, he in one of the stories.”

This really piqued my curiosity.  I wondered which story, but judging by C-Lo’s tone, I had a funny feeling I already knew.

“Which one?”

“This one,” C-Lo said, passing me the open book. 

There was a sting to being right, one I wish I could take back.  I stared at the title page.  Coping With Conviction, by Terry Robinson. 

I knew the story well, read it twice.  It was very moving and full of emotion.  I liked it a lot, but I didn’t like the way it made me feel.  The story was about two young men that had been sentenced to death row.  Both were struggling to accept, face and fight the judgement deemed their fate.  However, they formed an unlikely bond.  Becoming friends, the two found common interests that helped them cope with their convictions. 

Unfortunately, after some ups and downs, one of the young men succumbed to the weight of his burden and took his own life. That young brother was C-Lo’s co-defendant and childhood friend.

After sharing some of their personal story, as if I needed proof, C-Lo pulled out a host of paperwork and news clippings; showing me a picture of his dearly departed friend.  They were young men who made a bad decision, which cost them tremendously. 

The mood noticeably changed.  The small cell suddenly felt tiny and tight.  A harsh reality weighed heavily upon us, and in the grim silence, there was no need for words.  I could read C-Lo’s every thought, feel his every emotion and shared his every sentiment  These were our stories; told by people like us.  We too, were coping with conviction. 

ABOUT THE WRITER.   Carter is a naturally gifted writer, and it is a privilege to share his writing here. When I read this piece, I immediately knew it was the perfect one to be included in WITS’ very first independent newsletter. Carter is extremely interested in furthering his education, though opportunities are few where he is currently at and in his current situation. But he continues to write and work on positive endeavors. Carter is also a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers.

If you would like to contact Carter Cooper, please reach out to me directly.

I was always told beauty is only skin deep.  It’s what’s inside a person that truly counts, so I’ve never been one to be critical of a person’s outward appearance.  However, I also heard it preached that God don’t like ugly.  And throughout my twenty odd years in the Department of Corrections, I must admit, I’ve seen some pretty ugly things.  Perhaps some of the ugliest at the infamous Pasquotank Prison – more affectionately known as ‘Pass-a-shank’, just to give you an idea.

During my extended stay there, I recall there was one particular female officer, let’s just say, she had a peculiar way with the inmate population.  Ms. CO wasn’t the most attractive woman, but she was a woman, and that’s worth a good five points on the scale in an all men’s facility.  She kept her hair and nails done, and if you saw her from the back, you’d forget any of her shortcomings.  And, like I said, I’m not one to be all judgemental, and I try to treat all God’s children the same. But, like I also said, it’s what’s on the inside that counts, and Ms. CO must’ve been a little foul on the inside, because she sure spoke foul in abundance. 

I, myself, never had any run-ins with Ms. CO, and we were no less than cordial when interacting.  However, I did know she was a pit viper, always ready to strike.  After witnessing one of her venomous attacks, I did my best to steer clear.  She didn’t need much provoking, and she certainly wasn’t holding anything back.  

I remember once, our TV had been inadvertently turned off by the control booth officer and some brave soul took it upon himself to ask Ms. CO about it.  

“Hey, Ms. CO…  tell ‘em to turn the TV back on,” the guy casually said.

Now, all Ms. CO had to do was simply radio the officer in the booth and correct the mishap, but nothing was ever simple with Ms. CO.  

“Fuck that TV, I’m on my way home!” she snapped, spinning on her heels.

“Dumb bitch,” someone mumbled.

Instantly, Ms. CO spun back around.  Her eyes narrowed into slits, as she honed in on her target.  With unadulterated vitriol, she spewed her venomous rage, “Dumb bitch?  No, you the dumb bitch, locked up in here on yo’ knees at night.  I’m going home.  Like I said, fuck that TV!”

The cell block went deathly silent.  You could practically hear the shattering of her victim’s face, as it hit the floor.  There was momentary shock, before the spread of hushed murmurs and snickering.  

These weren’t the types of words you spoke to a man, especially not a man in prison.  Adding insult to injury, the words not only came from an officer, but a female officer, an absolute challenge to his manhood and integrity.  I prayed for the man’s restraint, and praised him for it.  I’m not even certain Ms. CO had the right culprit.  

This was but one of her many vicious verbal assaults, and some were a lot more vulgar and degrading.  It was a common occurrence.  Ms. CO was known to pepper at least two or three people with her spicy speech every time she stepped in the building.  Another such incident occurred while we were in the canteen line.  A young brother came out of the block be-bopping, talking loud, saluting all the homies; just being young.  However, he hadn’t yet met Ms. CO, wasn’t even aware she’d set her sights on him.

Once he did take notice of her icy stare, the young man froze in his tracks.  First, giving himself a lookover, he turned to Ms. CO and asked, “What?”

Ms. CO’s neck and eyes rolled slowly, like an uncoiling serpent.

“What?” she hissed, taken aback by the perceived insolence.  “Boy, you know the rules!” she added with a snap.

“First of all, I ain’t no boy, and…”

Before he could finish, Ms. CO lit into him.  “Boy, you whatever I say you is.  Now, go back to the block.  No canteen for you…”  Ms. CO said with a dismissive wave before adding, “And if another mutha’ fucka’ come out here with their shirt untucked, I’m shutting this shit down, and won’t nobody be getting canteen!”

The young man took a very quick and aggressive step toward Ms. CO, but an “O.G.” stepped in front of him.

“Chill, cuz…  Just go on back; I got you.”

Ms. CO eyed the intervening man and slightly snarled.  Then, to the young man, “Bye!  Go!” emphasized by bulging eyes.

The young man looked from Ms. CO to his, or maybe her, savior and shook his head in frustration.  The O.G. gave him a knowing and appreciative nod.

Once the scene had died down and the line resumed, the O.G. finally spoke.  

“Ms. CO,” he thoughtfully began.

She appeared to be listening, but also looked very uninterested.

“You know… you got to mind how you speak to people.”

“I ain’t got to do sh…” she attempted, but the O.G. silenced her with the subtle raise of his hand.  

“You right.  You ain’t got to do shit, but it would be in all our best interests if you considered how you talk to people.  You just can’t go around lighting any and everybody up…  Some niggaz’ ain’t going home and ain’t got shit to lose.”

Ms. CO looked to be halfheartedly listening, but before she could interject, he added, “If that ain’t enough…  just remember, God don’t like ugly.”

With that, the man turned to leave, without going to canteen.

I don’t know if Ms. CO took heed to anything the good brother said, but things did seem to quiet down, at least for a little while.  That is, until they paired Ms. CO with another young lady, who also bore an equally burdensome chip on her shoulder.  The young sister felt she had something to prove to all ‘the bros’ on the yard.

Once united, this deranged duo clicked tight and unleashed a wicked wrath.  There were shakedowns, lockdowns, and plenty verbal beatdowns.  They hated the strong and stomped out the weak.  You did good if you were able to stay clear and stay quiet, as myself and a few others managed, becoming the proverbial fly on the wall.  It was from that very vantage point I witnessed the most gruesome attack I’d ever seen.

One day, while I was on the phone, I noticed a ruckus stirring in the next block.  I couldn’t quite see what was going on, but I was accustomed to steering clear.  It wasn’t until later I would find out Ms. CO’s cohort was being viciously beaten in an area known as ‘no man’s land’, far from help and obscure from view.

Though I couldn’t see what was happening while I was on the phone, I could see a friend of mine also talking on the phone.  He calmly carried on his conversation, watching the melee from the angle he had as if it were another dull ballgame.  From the outside looking in, you would have never imagined the drama unfolding before his eyes; nor the drama to which his life had just succumbed.  After recently finishing a ten year stretch, he was back in less than a year.  This time, sadly, leaving behind not only his family, but exchanging his newly gained freedom for a fresh thirty-seven year sentence.  Another ruined recidivist.

It was about then, Ms. CO made her way into the block.  D.O.C. so valued their loyal and faithful minions that these two female officers were the only officers on duty, expected to monitor and control ninety-six grown men.  The admin-instructor had pumped their head full of, “I think I can!” 

Flying to the rescue, Ms. CO whipped out her retractable baton, the metal stick locking in place.  Barking commands, she parted the sea of rowdy bystanders, headed to aid her fallen co-worker.  I’ll spare you the gory details, but Ms. CO never made it beyond the wall phone.  I watched as that friend who’d been on the phone calmly cradled the receiver and just as calmly grabbed Ms. CO by the wrist.  Snatching the baton from her hand, he commenced with a brutal beating.  In the end, the baton was broken as well as one of his hands.  I’m not sure what happened, but the jovial jokester I once knew was no more.  This enraged man was exorcizing every demon that tormented him, both within and without. 

The cavalry’s clumsy arrival was far too late.  The damage was done and the needed repair immeasurable.  Ms. CO and her partner were carted out and never seen again.  The two men who carried out the savage sacrifice also met an impending fate.  My heart goes out to them all, the sisters who were pawns in a grander scheme; the brothers who fell victim to yet another of the system’s treacherous traps.  I will never condone violence against anyone, neither am I a fan of the merciless abuse of authority.  

Days later, while watching the evening news, there was a report on the attack.  Allegedly, Ms. CO sustained a fractured orbital socket, a broken jaw, twenty staples and numerous stitches.  Shaking my head, I said a silent prayer and thought, ‘God don’t like ugly.’  

ABOUT THE WRITER.   I have a lot of favorite writers, and Carter is one of them. He has a natural talent and relatable style. And, honestly, there is so much to think about in this essay, it is hard subject matter to tackle, and I think he did it very well. Carter is extremely interested in furthering his education, but those opportunities are close to none where he is currently at and in his current situation. But that doesn’t stop him, he is still driven and motivated to take positive steps, and I’m so grateful that he shares his writing here. Carter is also a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers. 

If you would like to contact Carter Cooper, please reach out to me directly.

I am easily able to account for numerous contributing factors to my incarceration.  My mind and heart begrudgingly possess a bevy of reasons, explanations and excuses.  However, after further consideration, I concede they are just that… excuses; meager attempts to justify my being incarcerated, enchained and entombed.

As do many, I too find myself quickly casting blame upon the most frequently attributed afflictions – a broken and fatherless home; the lack of proper guidance and structure; a dysfunctional judicial system that levies unfair sentencing; misrepresentation by an ineffective counsel; the coercion of corrupt law enforcement; or perhaps, simply, the implication of a very ‘talkative’ acquaintance.  This list could go on, and each reason would appear quite significant in the eyes of its beholder, but truth be told, these are merely the fruit of a much more poisonous tree.  

While contemplating similar causes in my own incarceration, I discover they undoubtedly share one common root.  Although each merits its own truth, these stigma are the culmination of a far greater woe.  This generational genocide, reinforced by blind belief in errant statistical data, flawed reiterations and environmental influence while balanced on the crutches of racial prejudice is but the surface of this deeply embedded spur.

By no means am I attempting to discredit the validity of such factors, or reduce their weight in regard to anyone’s bout with this carceral beast, my own included, but there is one simple answer to this question. What do I consider the most significant factor in my incarceration?  ‘Absence’…  Yes, absence.

In my humble opinion, absence is the root cause of any and everyone’s incarceration.  No matter which surface truth we choose to blame, ultimately, there was an underlying lack that led to its burgeoning.  Whether it was the absence of a father figure, a strong support system or a void of values, there was a lack.  Maybe there was an unfair trial, insufficient legal assistance, or the ploy of discriminatory incrimination, but the fact still remains – we were without something, and the absence of that something created a vulnerability.

In an absence of awareness, we lose focus and forget all instruction and forewarning, then act with clouded judgment, in total disregard to consequence.  In an absence of direction, we are left to our own demise, inept at navigating the hostile and often imbalanced terrain of our society.  In the absence of maturation, we have become trapped in a race, running from responsibility, hoping to be rewarded with the avoidance of accountability.  And, in the absence of knowledge, we are unable to defend our rights or freedom on the battlefield of ‘law and order’, thus we are captured, sold, and enslaved.

So, you see then, regardless of how one may attempt to rationalize the cause of their incarceration, a single truth prevails – there has been an absence in our lives – an absence resulting in ignorance, an absence that has become a perpetual deviant, an absence that led to bad choices and poor decisions, an absence that has left us absent.  

ABOUT THE WRITER.   It is no surprise that Carter has placed third in our recent writing contest. He has placed here before, and he is also a co-author of Beneath Our Numbers. His writing style is always reflective, sometimes nostalgic, and completely charming. WITS really appreciates the insight that writers like Carter bring to important conversations.

If you would like to contact Carter, please reach out to me directly.

The bold red lettering screamed, the words an unexpected punch to the stomach causing a burdened breath to break free.  Unable to face the sullen sign any longer, I lowered my head, chin to chest, contemplating the burden that lie beyond – spending the next sixteen years imprisoned, only able to call home once each Christmas; the thought… fathomless.  My life was over.  My brittle heart crumbled, the pieces plunging into a pit of despair, dragging along my broken spirit.

I sat in a daze, oblivious to my surroundings, yet aware of their presence.  Fluorescent lighting clicked and ticked above, my nose numb with the smell of fresh paint masking decades of stale urine, and my bottom paralyzed by the cold concrete bench.  Slowly, the void began to lay claim.

The crackle of ratcheting manacle locks shattered the emptiness, a sound I would, unfortunately, become intimate with.  None of it even mattered.

This had to be cruel and unusual.  I swallowed hard, hoping to gulp down any tears threatening to fall.  My chapped lip quivered; I bit down, tasted blood. 

“Aye…”  I felt a light tap on my knee.

“Aye…” Grappling through my haze, I struggled to focus on the face before me.  It belonged to the county sheriff, whose job it was to deliver me into the custody of the department of corrections.  

“Hold ya head up homeboy… You from Laurinburg,” he said, smiling encouragingly.

I understood the sentiment, but despite the man’s effort, the lore of the infamous Central Prison weighed heavy upon me.  Frightening images flashed before my mind’s eye, depicting gruesome tales of murder, assault, and far worse taking place behind the century old walls.  The prison’s vicious reputation brought to mind fangs, thirsting for fresh blood.  I shivered.

“You’re going to be a’ight Emmanuel… I’m sure of it,” the Sheriff said.

There was something in his tone, the look in his eyes, the way he said my name.  Emmanuel, ‘God is with us’.  It gave me a sense of reassurance.

As the words processed, my head began to rise.  Although I could feel my neck cringing beneath the weight of stress and anxiety, I firmly held the sheriff’s gaze and gave an affirmative nod.  Responding in kind, he smiled again before turning to leave.

Watching as he gradually descended that long empty corridor, I silently cried out to return with him.  The sheriff was going home… I was not.

Once again, I looked at the sign.

I swallowed hard, hoping to gulp down the tears that threatened.  Defiantly, I stood… ready to face the burden that lie beyond. 

ABOUT THE WRITER.   Christmas and other holidays carry a unique struggle from prison. Carter captured some of that struggle in this essay, and I am grateful for him and all the WITS writers who continue to open up and share their experiences from within prison. If you would like to contact Carter, please reach out to me directly.

Unfortunately, I’ve been incarcerated the majority of my adulthood, in and out of correctional facilities since the tender age of seventeen; more so in, rather than out.  Although considered a late bloomer when compared to some of my felonious fellow men, none-the-less, here I am, an equally welcomed recidivist.

As a young man, the revolving ‘ins and outs’ never affected me, or apparently I was too naive to realize the effects that were in fact taking place.  So what if I lost my right to vote, own a gun or leave the country, I was a ‘street n-bomb’ and jail and prison were almost a certainty, sort of an occupational hazard that came with the lifestyle.

Never once did I realize the emotional and psychological toll the continual stints of confinement were taking.  I’ve spent from two weeks in jail to thirteen years and nine months straight in prison, a total of five individual trips to prison, and I’m currently serving a 7-9 year sentence.  Now I’m just learning the lesson I should’ve grasped decades ago.

The cumulative amount of time that I’ve spent chained, shackled, and caged surrounded by concrete and steel has completely desensitized me in regards to common human emotion.  No, I’m not professing to be some deranged psychotic killer, but things that once meant something have lost tremendous, if not all, value to me.

Birthdays have become just another day, and holidays are the worst, most boring and slowest times of the year.  I dread to see them, knowing the feelings they are bound to stir.  “Bah-humbug’.  These are only a fraction of the losses I’ve experienced.

I’ve lost friends and family who weren’t mentally ready or mature enough to ‘ride-a-bid’ with me, but I understand now, that is an earnest request.  The commitment and dedication required to stand by someone incarcerated can be emotionally taxing, not to mention someone who is repeatedly returning.

I’ve also lost family and friends to old age, ill health, accidents and the same ‘street life’ that has stolen so much of my very own life.  None of this having any exceeding affect, all just casualties along the way.

During one of my short stints home, ‘on the streets’, ‘free’, I managed to create a child.  But, just like every other time, Daddy was hell bent on returning to the pen.

While in the county jail, with the mother of my child alone, needy and months into her pregnancy, I pledged to my mother all the things I planned to do right if only God gave me a chance.  I swore to do right by my little girl.

Now, let me preface this next part by saying, I’m a bonafide ‘mama’s boy’ and proud of it. There’s nothing I love more than my mother and nothing I wouldn’t do for her, but I just couldn’t seem to ‘keep my behind’ out of prison.

While proclaiming my new found inspiration and reason for doing things the right way – my daughter – my mom said, “Well, son, why can’t you just do it for yourself?  I understand you doing it for your daughter, but you need to do it for yourself…  Stay free for yourself…  Love yourself.”

The words struck a chord, not simply resonating, but finding root in my mind, heart, and spirit.  It was only months later when I faced my greatest fear – I lost my mother while incarcerated.  I received the news while in the ‘hole’ and on my father’s birthday.  Adding insult to injury, I wasn’t allowed to attend the funeral nor any closed viewing.  Never given the chance to say, “goodbye”, or “I love you”, or “I’m sorry.”

No matter how callous I’ve become through the years of confinement, this pain managed to penetrate my core, my soul, my very being.

Where do I now draw my inspiration to endure my hardship of incarceration?  From my daughter, my mother and her words, “Do it for yourself, son.”  

“For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is going to be revealed to us.” 

Romans 8:18

ABOUT THE WRITER.   I’m happy to say Carter came in third place in our most recent writing contest. I don’t judge the contests, but when I saw his entry, I was pulling for him in my heart. He hasn’t written much for us, but what he has shared has touched me. If you would like to contact Carter, please reach out to me directly.

I felt alone today, by myself in a great big world, my mind and heart yearning for a familiar closeness that just wasn’t there.

I guess for the first time I faced the gravity of my reality.  I am, in fact, alone, by myself, detached from the world at large – a barren island of sorts, surrounded by a sea of destitution and braving a storm of bereavement…  all alone.

As do most, I too took for granted having a place of refuge amid adversity, finding truth in that bitter sentiment – ‘you don’t know what you’ve got until its gone’.

At one point in time, no matter where or what I faced, there was a place I could find solace and security, a harmonic vibration, a channel I could tune in that reassured comfort, confidence and completeness.  It was a source of strength that superseded all anxiety, fortified fortitude and boosted morale.

My quiet place silenced the chaotic chatter, providing a sense of still, and the much needed presence of peace.   A stronghold, shielding against every advancement of the adversary, the cornerstone of an unwavering foundation.

Loving arms, listening ears, and a well of wisdom that shone like a beacon of light; giving guidance along my journey.  If I veered off course or found myself lost and astray, that same light beckoned, correcting any misdirection.  It was a luminous love that calmed every raging water, gently guiding me home.

No matter the distance, if I called, she’d come.  Despite the odds, she stood tall, head high and proud… that I was her son.  My mothership has sailed, leaving me behind… alone… by myself… another prisoner of time.

ABOUT THE WRITER.   This is the first piece I have posted by Carter Cooper. WITS writers are all special and unique, and when I get a submission from someone new who has that ‘something’ it reminds me, once again, why we are here. I saved this for Mother’s Day. I look forward to seeing more from Mr. Cooper. If you would like to contact him, please reach out to me directly.