My neighbors and I have one very large thing in common.  In the name of security, prison officials have stripped us of every ounce of our dignity.  In spite of that bond – we all know better than to get too close to one another.  Each one of is here to be executed.   We may not have execution dates – yet – but the possibility looms large with every court ruling, every denied appeal and every date set for one of our neighbors.

To remain emotionally separated from our fellow condemned prisoners may be what we want – but it’s not always possible.  In reality it’s sometimes unavoidable while living in such close proximity, sharing our losses, talking, and being around each other, even if only in an emotional sense.  Sometimes you find yourself compatible with someone, maybe because of their attitude, or maybe it’s just the way they carry themselves.  There are also those you dislike for whatever reason.

Here on Death Row, you don’t ask a person what kind of charge they have or what they are here for.  Everyone knows that – to live here – there had to be someone who was killed and you are either charged with it or involved.  Despite that, there is an amount of curiosity, and it’s hard to accept some crimes.  It’s an internal battle to be against the death penalty regardless of the nature of the crime.  On one hand being opposed to the harshest of punishments, but on the other being judgmental of certain offenses.

It’s quite easy to be against execution when you are facing it.  For me the struggle is not to be biased when someone’s crime involved a kid. This is a challenge for me, and even though I don’t ask guys what they are here for, I still try to be in the know with who did what.

Just the other day a guy was executed – Erick – it was April 25, 2018. He was a guy I had become close to and considered a friend. When I first met him, I saw me almost 20 years ago when I first came to prison – young, wild, knew it all and just didn’t give a f*#@.  I could relate.   I was at that same point in my life many years ago when I was that age.  As the years passed I watched him grow and mature a bit, yet maintain that wildness that made him who he was.  Yes, he still had a ways to go in his growth, but I accepted him for who he was. Then I found out through a friend why he was here.  There was a five-year-old child killed in his case.

It hurt me to find this out, but I concealed the pain because I had come to like this guy and accepted him for who he was with me.   But I was confused.  It’s hard to ‘unknow’ someone once you’ve spent hours, days and years socializing with them.  It was a learning experience for me about not judging someone – a lesson about offering a person the same forgiveness that I seek from those who come into my life.

I reflected upon this for a long time, as a battle went on inside me to come to my own understanding.  It wasn’t about Erick anymore, it wasn’t about the crime.  It was about me.  Could I find it within myself to forgive and still accept the man I knew as a friend?  Would the bond I found with him and the way I embraced him as a little brother remain strong?  Yes.  I forgave him and accepted him for who he was and the person he was trying to become, the man who was trying to better himself even though it wasn’t easy.    The man who was open to learning and believing that it was possible to grow despite the nature of his incarceration.  That’s why April 25, 2018, was a difficult day.  It was the day Erick was executed by the state of Texas.

I was reading a book recently in which a man’s son was killed, and a police detective came to the home to talk with him.  The detective said he wanted to get justice for his son.  The man looked him in the eye and said, “There ain’t no justice, its only revenge, could you please leave.”   Those few words said a lot.

What truly is justice?  It’s sure not what the politicians tell us.  It’s sure not what goes on in this country. Justice is a word used to convince people the right things is being done for them, making them feel they are getting what is due them for the wrong done toward them or their family. Executing a person is not justice.  Taking the life of another human is not justice. It’s revenge in its purest form, cloaked in the robe of justice.  It’s baffling that people can actually believe justice is being served by watching a man being strapped to a table and having an IV inserted into his arm to be filled with poison until it kills him.  Justice…  This has to be the most primitive view of ‘justice’ imaginable.  How is this considered justice in any form?  And yet politicians continue to stand firm that this is the way…

ABOUT THE WRITER.  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

Last night I dreamed I was dying.  Not from illness or old age – I was going to be executed by lethal injection.  It all happened so fast.  One moment I was living my miserable, yet consistent seventeen years of incarceration.  The next thing I knew, my number was up.

I kept telling myself it wouldn’t happen to me – that the mighty fist of God would swoop down and smote my enemies.  Then I remembered that my enemies had gods also – from my predicament it seemed evident whose god was winning.

I was kept isolated in a dusky room.  There were barred windows, a television set, and a steel cot to lay in my misery.  I paced in circles to unwind the hands of time.  I painted myself invisible with repentance.  I held intimate conversations with my family, though the walls said nothing in return.  I snapped in and out of trances, thinking, “Why haven’t we been called to class yet?”

Then my picture blasted onto the TV screen with the bold caption beneath:  KILLER TO BE EXECUTED TONIGHT, 2  A.M.   I studied the image and hardly recognized myself – my face looked worn with burden.  I slid into my flip-flops and searched for my headset, anxious to hear the report of a granted stay.  But it was too late.  Even a stay of execution would not quiet the mess that rattled in my head.

I made a decision – I was going to kill myself.  The circumstances I faced were so horrible and unreal that suicide seemed like the only remedy.  I combed the room for a weapon.  I felt desperate to die.  I noticed the bed sheets and was reminded of my friend E-Boogie, who’d hung himself.  I whispered an incantation, “I can do this,” over and over as I fumbled to tie the knots.

I could do it, couldn’t I?  It seemed paradoxical to be non-suicidal while contemplating killing yourself. Yet I couldn’t shake the notion that I deserved to decide my own fate.  Why should I give the state the satisfaction of terminating my life?  Why would I give death penalty supporters a cause to rally in victory?  These people were not loved ones of mine.  They hadn’t made sacrifices for me.  They’d never shed tears at night when I was late coming home or hugged me so tight that it felt electric.

The state hated me.  Its mass supporters of capital punishment hated me. They believed that life was wasted on me with absolutely no chance for redemption.  Well, I would show them.  No longer would they draw strength from my fears.  No longer would I be marked by their judgment.  They would not get to congregate over coffee and scones while my body convulsed from their poisons.  My life was not theirs to take – that duty was my own.

I knew that suicide was widely believed to be an unforgivable sin. Who was I kidding?  I’d been labeled a murderer by all those that mattered. There’d be no more tedious claims of innocence for doubters to discredit.  There’d be no salvation for people like me as long as there are people like them.  And there’d be no hope of a better tomorrow when my tomorrow was upon me today.

I spotted a beam that was high up on the ceiling and hoped it would suffice.  As I tied the sheets, I fashioned a noose to fit comfortably around my neck. Then I used a chair to hoist myself into my own death chamber.  I was furious, terrified, and yet somehow content – there was no other way.  I stepped off the ledge…

I was jarred awake in my cell on death row as my head swam with delirium.  I glanced around the room and choked back sadness as every item was a reminder of the possibilities to come.  I laid back, closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.  I was convinced that it was all a dream.  But after having lived through the reality of executions past, the dream left me with a single question, “Was it?”

©Chanton

Wanna cry me a river
Tears for my peers
Executed over the years
Despite these fears
Living life in this period
Grinded in the gears
Of unfair justice
Strapped down in line
Hoping it’s not my time
To cry my river…

ABOUT THE WRITER.  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

Sometimes I wish I was a kid again
Living in a world free of sin
Free from war that has no meaning
Sure!
I’m still California Dreamin’
Leaning on my own understanding
Tired of Politicians’ deceptive grandstanding
Telling you what you want to hear
So they can get your vote
It’s either the Ballot or the Bullet
Not watermelon nor chicken
And just because I eat at Chick-fil-A
Don’t make me anti-gay
It just means I accept marriage to mean a husband and a wife
I’m pro-life…
Live and let live…
To be or not to be…
And yet,
Sometimes…
I just want to kick back and eat a pork sandwich
While watching Charlotte play with her web in search for Wilbur
Follow me?
Society can be a cruel place
Often making me feel like a mental-case
Worrying about my family’s safety
Not caring whether or not the Executioner hates me
Humans will always be at odds with Humanity
It’s the essence of Insanity
“One Nation Under God,” has never existed
Uncle Sam keeps murderers enlisted
Never forget My Lai of 1968
Sometime…
Sometimes can be a little too much
I feel that I’ve grown out-of-touch
I shun liars
And speak the truth
Having immature folks call me a nincompoop
My mother tells me I just don’t understand
While I explain I speak with the tongue of a changed man
My so called friends say these nine pounds of steel has messed with my brain
Sometimes…
I only wish they could feel my pain

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Charles “Chucky” Mamou is a gifted writer living on Death Row.  He can be contacted at:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

It’s winter, so bundle up – take a walk with me.

At my cell door, we have to stop.  Two guards are on the other side, and I need to hand them all my clothes.   I stand in my boxers as one searches through my thermal top, thermal bottom, two pairs of socks, shorts, t-shirt, jump suit and jacket.  Once finished, the male guard hands all those items to the female guard standing next to him.

I then hand the man the last of my clothing, my boxer shorts and tennis shoes.  Once he searches those, I’m made to do the strip search drill, lifting my testicles and turning around, before I’m allowed to put my boxers and tennis shoes back on.  Turning my back to the door, I squat a bit to place my hands through the feeding slot so hand restraints can be placed on my wrists.  Once locked in place, I stand up, and the guard motions for the cell to be opened.

“Back out the cell,” the guard states.  You’re not supposed to turn around and walk out, but back out.  Now we are escorted by the two guards to the recreation yard outside.  Once through the door to the outside, the bitter cold instantly bites my flesh, sending goose bumps along my skin.  As one guard holds me, the other walks the recreation yard, searching it – and holding my clothes.

Once she returns, I step in the yard and the door is closed behind me.  I stoop once again to place my hands through the slot so the handcuffs can be removed.  My clothes are then passed to me through the slot.  I quickly begin putting them on and trying to get warm.

That was the easy part.  After my time outside is up, the guards return to get me.  Once again, I walk back to the gate door and begin to strip out in order to hand my clothes to the guard.  Layer by layer, I hand them in as they are searched, piece by piece, until I am once again naked and outside.  The last thing I hand in is my shoes, as I stand on the cold concrete, waiting.  But, before they can be returned, I first have to raise my testicles, raise my arms, and turn around.

My body is shivering by the time I get my shoes and boxers back and turn around to once again put my shaking hands through the slot to get handcuffed.  I then stand up before backing out the door and walking back into the building.

Thank you for walking with me.  If you enjoyed this, we can do it again tomorrow.  This is what every one of us does that wants to get outside our cell for two hours in the winter.

ABOUT THE WRITER.  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

Locked in a cell with nothing but pain,
Thoughts of injustice running through my brain.
Sitting on Texas Death Row, waiting to die
For a crime I’ve not done, you might ask why…

How did it start, where will it end?
Why did this horrible nightmare begin?
Why did she lie and condemn me to death?
I’ll ask this question with my last breath.

I understand she was scared and alone,
But to blame it on me was wrong.
So, now I lay behind these walls of concrete and steel,
Waiting for justice on my appeal.

Kept in solitary confinement in this man made hell,
Empty inside, no longer a man, only a shell.
Missing my children all these years,
Shattered dreams, lost hopes, silent tears.

Angry for all the years I’ve lost,
Found faith for that man on the cross.
If not for the lord to help ease the pain,
The cruelness of this place would drive me insane.

When my day comes and it’s my turn to go,
There’s something I want everyone to know.
Life is short and often tragic,
Find the Lord, you’ll find life’s magic.

God bless you and me!

AUTHOR’S NOTE:  It’s eighteen years later…
I’ve lost the faith.

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

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