When you first arrive off the transport van, you are interviewed by the ‘Death Row Classification Committee’, handed a rule book and told that you are expected to follow the rules and policies.  Just a few days before, you were condemned to die by lethal injection because they believe you can’t be rehabilitated and are incapable of following any rules.

You spend the next twenty years being a model prisoner.  It won’t help you on appeal.  They don’t want to know if you could have been rehabilitated.  They don’t want to know the person you’ve become is not the man they labeled as ‘incapable of following rules or functioning in society’.

If you were to violate every rule, they would want to know.  I ask myself over and over – Is it possible to disagree with my confinement, yet accept the rules placed on me by it?  What does it mean to be in agreement with your incarceration?

Regardless of how much I ponder this, I know it’s not about what they say or do with me but what I see in myself, the dignity I live with, and the behavior I expect and look for from myself.  What kind of growth can I reflect upon myself, what is it I believe I am capable of living like?  Regardless of what the courts or prison officials tell me, I have to maintain a certain level of respect and accountability for my behavior and actions.  It’s a reflection of who I am, and nothing beyond that matters.

The sword may have two edges, but I have no worries of either cutting me, for my actions are my armor of protection…

Travis Runnels, is a published author, and is currently working on his second novel.  He lives on Death Row.

Travis Runnels #999505
3872 FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

BANG! BANG! BANG! “Mail call!  What’s your number?” yelled the obese guard as he finished beating on my rickety cell door with his pale, meaty fist, as though he was trying to wake the dead.

Startled out of my blank stare at the off-white, filthy, concrete wall across the cell, with its peeling chunks of paint, I drone a response, in a voice devoid of feeling, “Nine, nine, nine, three, seven, seven.”

I was lying on my ‘mattress’, another word for a hard, plastic sleeve, stuffed with what feels like a bunch of golf balls.  Lying on a bed of dirt would be more comfortable.  I was wearing the dingy white Death row uniform, basically a jumpsuit made of a denim-like material, the letters “DR” painted boldly on the back and on one of the legs, with thin, grey socks on my feet, attempting to keep my feet warm. My head was propped up on the thread-bare blanket I was issued, something a homeless person would balk at.

“Here!” barked the police academy reject in a voice that let me know he was disgusted with me before he slid two letters under my cell door, just past the doorway.

It took my depressed mind a second to register the mail on the floor. Once realization hit, I leapt off my bed as if it were on fire, took three steps to the doorway, and snatched my mail from the cold concrete. From the evening light struggling to squeeze through the tiny window in the back wall of my cell, I read the front of each envelope – one from mom and dad, one from Sara, the mother of my son.

My heart beat so hard and fast, it felt like it was going to explode right out of my chest. My hands were trembling and my breath struggling, as if I just sprinted a mile. The sheer desperation emanating from my being blurred out everything but those two letters. Someone could have opened my cell door and hit me over the head, and I would have been oblivious. I was starved beyond words for communication from outside the steel and concrete walls – especially from my family.

I read the letter from Sara first. Even though our relationship was on the rocks, I missed her terribly. Just holding her letter brought me comfort – the softness of the paper she handled and the scent she left on it. I soaked in her words like a dry sponge touching water for the very first time. Her loving words made me ache for her even more. I did not realize she was experiencing as much pain and suffering from being apart, as I was. I read her letter so fast, I had to read it again, a bit slower, to make sure I didn’t miss anything.  I read it a third time, slower still, because I needed the reprieve from the darkness that had plagued me since my arrival on Death Row nearly a month earlier. I clung to her words like a drowning man clings to a life preserver in the middle of the ocean.

Reluctantly, I placed her letter on my bare desk, which is nothing more than a thick sheet of metal welded to the wall, right next to my metal bunk.  The desk and bunk are dingy and rusted in several spots.

I took a deep breath and opened mom and dad’s letter. I say ‘mom and dad’, but my dad isn’t much of a writer, so mom writes for both of them. Their letters are always so full of love, comfort, encouragement…things I need to hear in order to keep from being swallowed by the darkness and going insane. It would be too easy to just let go. Like I did with Sara’s letter, I read my parents’ letter a second and third time, basking in the comfort with each pass. God, I miss them so much. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what they were going through. Children are not supposed to die before their parents…

I placed their letter next to Sara’s, and sat on my bed.  My cell was cold, which told me it was still cold outside. The heaters don’t work here. No surprise, nothing seems to work right here. To operate my steel-encased wall light which resides above the sink/toilet combo, you have to beat the front of it – one or two hard hits turn it on, four of five hard hits turn it off. I’m surprised the light bulbs haven’t shattered yet.  The toilet is probably the only thing that works properly. It’s a stainless steel sink/toilet combo bolted to a stainless steel wall. It’s quite the beast! In fact, it works so damn good, when you sit on it and flush, it feels like it’s going to suck you right down the drain! I have to be careful, as I only weigh a buck thirty. When it rains, water trickles through all the cracks in the walls, which is probably why my cell smells like a moldy, wet dog.

Sitting on my bed, the pain and horror of my situation begin to creep back in, like watching a horror movie in slow motion. I am soon filled with despair. The jury foreman’s words haunt me: “We the jury, find the Defendant, Kenneth Vodochodsky, Guilty of Capital Murder of a Peace Officer….” And then there’s the voice of the Judge: “….I hereby sentence you to Death.”  What a nightmare! When will I wake up?! Murder…Guilty…Death…All for a crime I did not commit!

“How the hell did this happen?!” I wonder aloud for the thousandth time.  I squeeze my eyes shut as tight as I can, trying to block out the memories. Tears begin to stream down my face, hot and accusing, puddling on my lap. My eyes red, puffy, and hurt to the touch. I no longer bother to wipe the tears away. When will they stop?! My nose is red and on fire from attempting to wipe away all the snot that seems to be trying to keep pace with all the tears running down my face.

It’s times like this I’m grateful to at least be in a cell by myself.

The sight of a grown man breaking down and crying is disturbing. In prison, it’s also a sign of weakness. If you’re perceived as weak, the predators will come after you. Hence, being surrounded by a pack of convicted killers is another reason to be grateful for a cell to myself. I contemplate if any of them are planning to come after me. What about the guards? Their looks of disgust and hatred are overwhelming.  I shiver from the fear, the unknown.

I pull my knees up to my chest, tightly wrap my arms around them, and rest my chin on top. I take a deep, shuttering breath. The tears are now down to a trickle. I think to myself for the umpteenth time, “What am I gonna do now? Am I going to die here?”

—-To be continued—-

Written by
Kenneth-Conrad Vodochodsky
#01362329 – Pack 1 Unit
2400 Wallace Pack Road
Navasota, TX 77868

Prison lines, prison rhymes,
There has to be better times.

Every day a grind, so hard to shine
In a 9×12 all my time.

A king with no crown,
That has a permanent frown.

Surrounded by music,
Without any sound.

The void filled with brown,
Same color as the ground.

Nothing around, hidden above ground,
Left so alone, within cells made of stone.

Travis Runnels, is a published author, and is currently working on his second novel.  He lives on Death Row.  He prepared the above poem for submission on New Year’s Eve, 2017.

Travis Runnels #999505
3872 FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

You have no idea what it’s like to be me – to have a father who delivers empty promises, to have dreams that are so far out of reach, attainability mocks you.

You have no idea what welfare tastes like or how the lump in the throat of a proud woman feels as her child gleefully laces up his used shoes.

You don’t know what it’s like – what early morning yard sales and a three mile trek to a fucked up job can do to your psyche or what it’s like to watch your hero bested by a villainous street drug, that special something in their eyes, forever gone.

You can’t know what that’s like because you’re not me, and you have no idea what it’s like to accept that everything you’ve done good was never really good enough; no idea what it’s like to have avoided near tragedy, only to have it claim your spirit, or what it’s like to, twice, be a victim of injustice because classism was instituted just for you.

You, seriously, have no idea what it feels like to believe in a country that doesn’t believe in you, one that has deemed you hopeless and washed its hands of your filthy soul – what it’s like to watch your brother’s lifeless body hanging from a bed sheet as an alternative to the daily cruelty he has suffered – no idea what it’s like to see your loved ones perish beyond a glass partition, to have that emptiness in your chest, and stillness on your tongue – no idea, the embarrassment of having to face your children, knowing that your shortcomings have victimized them, also.

You have no idea what it’s like to be drowned in struggle, encumbered by misery, yet still keep fighting because it’s all you have left.

What a life… you have no idea.

©Chanton

My earliest memories are from when I was five or six, maybe younger.  We had a side porch and when it was raining outside, my brother, cousins, and I would sing out at the rain, “Rain, rain, go away, come again another day.”  There is a smell that rain gives off, and I can’t name it, but it is the same scent I can smell when it rains where I am now.

I carry a scar with me from back then, too.  When I was little, I fell asleep on the couch, which had a shelf over it, holding a mini stereo.  The cord was hanging down, and I was such a wild sleeper that I got tangled in the cord and pulled the stereo down on my head, splitting my ear open.   I don’t remember that part, but I remember how they had to hold me down at the hospital to stitch my ear up because I was terrified of needles.

My heart feels sorrow when I think back to those memories now, knowing that most of the people from that life are gone.  I wish I could go back there, to the side porch.

Sitting on death row, you think about a lot of things.  Having a death sentence is just that – having it – until the time comes when there is a very real possibility an execution date could be given.  That’s when the term ‘the shit hits the fan’ becomes part of the equation.  That’s when the wondering starts working on you, the thinking and trying to figure out what’s what in this life you have lived so far.

Sometimes I want to know what’s to come, but other times I don’t.  There are times when I think about death so much that it becomes like a physical being, filling the space around me and pressing down on my soul.  It’s then that the nervousness threatens to consume me.  When I lay down at night I close my eyes and slow my breathing and try to feel it, the nothingness, a sleep from which I will never wake up.

But, I still have to shake it off.  Consciousness is all I’ve ever known.  Smelling the rain is what I know.

Travis Runnels has been a writer for this site for a long time.  He is scheduled to be executed on December 11, 2019.  You can sign a petition showing you are against his execution here.  You can also call the Governor of Texas at 512-463-2000 and ask for mercy and let him know you oppose the death penalty.

Travis Runnels #999505
3872 FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

I am still your dad, and I love you so,
More today than years ago.
Blame no one else… I am the one,
Forgive me now, for the wrong I’ve done.

So blind I was, I just couldn’t see,
How much you meant to me.
Now the chance I had is gone,
I’m a broken man, choices none.

Each passing night when I should sleep,
I see your faces, for you I weep.
Your trusting smiles of innocent charm,
I hold no more within my arms.

Within the eve of every day,
I bend my knees and heavenly pray.
Heavenly Father, guide them well,
Don’t let them suffer this living hell.

If I could undo the hurt from the past,
I’d give you love, smiles and laughs.
If I had one wish here today,
I’d wish these words for you to say,

“Daddy, I love you…”

Troy J. Clark #999351
Polunsky Unit D.R.
3872 FM 350 South
Livingston, TX 77351

I don’t want to kill myself,
I don’t want to kill myself,
I don’t want to kill myself.
I look to my left and right,
I look to my left and right.
I make sure the run is clear,
Before I take this flight.
I’m not crazy, maybe insane,
But I’ll be damned if they stick that needle in my vein.
We pop pills to avoid the last meal,
Like kids eating candy,
The medical pills become handy.
I’m not a scary man,
But a dead man,
You don’t believe me, look at my appeals man.
I shed these tears out of fear man,
So, I pop these pills to forget the van.
Several years I studied the plan,
I know Texas history,
I know the Klan.
I seen Lil Jack get in that van.
I seen Big Buck get in that van.
I seen Thread get in that van.
I seen Smoke get in that van.
I seen Chester get in that van.
I seen Ross get in that van.
I seen Tick get in that van.
I seen Savage get in that van.
I seen Bones get in that van.
I seen Diaz get in that van.
They won’t get me, ‘cause I have a plan.
I don’t want to kill myself,
I don’t want to kill myself.
I am not looking for the lethal injection,
No sir, brotha.
I don’t fit that selection,
I’m 6’4” in height,
They know my cell is too tight.
Did you know pressure burst pipes?
I have a camera in my cell playing games of show and tell,
I am not a porno star, so what you looking for?
My walls are closing in, and I can’t sleep at night,
Fighting off demons left and right.
Lord have mercy,
I don’t want to kill myself,
I don’t want to kill myself.
I look to the left and right,
I look to the left and right.
The devil in my sight,
I grip and hold tight.
I’m being harassed every day my officer night
I pace the floor at night with a shot of hot coffee,
Trying to find a way to get this date up off me.
Authorities on my brain, and my mind is locked up.
I believe tonight will be my final cup,
I don’t want to kill myself,
I don’t want to kill myself.
Some of you may not take my side,
But I’m trying to avoid that ride.
It’s not about pride, truth be told,
We’re just tired.
I don’t care about a date, I have a plan that can’t wait.
When they find me it will be too late,
Sitting in front of a big dinner eating steak.
I don’t want to kill myself,
I don’t want to kill myself.

The above poem was written by Pete Russell, and shared with me by Travis Runnels.

Pete Russell #999443
3872 FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

A friend of mine is leaving today,
I told him goodbye as he went away.
Be strong my friend, tear in my eye,
He showed no fear as they took him to die.

As he walked away, with a smile on his face
He yelled out, “I’m going to a better place.”
I thought to myself as I watched him go,
It’s gotta be better than Texas Death row.

I just heard on the radio they put him to death,
And his last words were, “I can finally rest.”
I feel ya bro, no more pain and misery,
Rest in peace my friend, you’re finally free.

Written by Troy J. Clark, about a friend of his on Texas Death row.   Troy can be contacted at:

Troy J. Clark #999351
Polunsky Unit D.R.
3872 FM 350 South
Livingston, TX 77351

She sits weeping in the front pew wearing a pretty dress.
The ivory casket conceals what remains.
Don’t cry for me, Mama, you did your best.
In the eyes of the gathering is a terrible truth.
The ivory casket conceals what remains.
I am the good that I have done, and the bad.
In the eyes of the gathering is a terrible truth.
Joyous hymns ward off the minions awaiting my soul.
I am the good that I have done, and the bad.
What’s next for a guy like me?
Joyous hymns ward off the minions awaiting my soul.
Tear drops descended for a fallen son.
What’s next for a guy like me?
A long black chariot and a caravan of mourners.
Tear drops descended for a fallen son.
Six feet is plenty deep to bury my regrets.
A long black chariot and a caravan of mourners.
Words spat from Scripture can be swift and deceiving.
Six feet is plenty deep to bury my regrets.
I was meant to be so much more.
Words spat from Scripture can be swift and deceiving.
The portal opens and I am summoned forth.
I was meant to be so much more.
Farewell to all who knew me.
The portal opens and I am summoned forth.
She sits weeping in the front pew wearing a pretty dress.
Farewell to all who knew me.
Don’t cry for me, Mama, you did your best.

© Chanton