I’ll never forget that summer day in ‘78 when my childhood innocence was shattered. I was four, the sun was out, and my only interest was in candy and fun. We lived in Mary Ellis trailer park, a scant neighborhood on the lower eastside of town. Everyone was treated like family in Mary Ellis. Even the insurance guy and the mailman were often shown hospitality. It was a fine community to grow up in – until that day when everything changed.
I was playing in the yard with my cousin, Teeka, when my urge for sweets kicked in. My mom was at my Aunt Helen’s trailer, a few lots down, while another aunt of mine babysat us. Teeka was four also and convincing her to sneak away was never difficult. Our capers were usually performed as a duo.
We started out for Ms. Rolee’s, a nearby elderly woman who sold penny candy and cookies to the neighborhood kids. Though Ms. Rolee wasn’t home, my sugar cravings went undeterred. Try-Me-Foods was a bodega located across the roadway that supplied people in the neighborhood with second-rate groceries on credit. Even though I was forbidden by my mom from crossing the busy street while unsupervised, I still set my sights there. Teeka and I scampered over to Try-Me-Foods, traded our coins for tarts and darted back. Once safely across, we considered the candy evidence and tore into the wrappers with our teeth.
Suddenly, a loud pop rang out and reverberated throughout Mary Ellis. Startled by the unexpectedness of the sound, our steps came to a halt. Teeka’s sparkly hazel eyes dimmed with fright as she clutched my hand tight. I’d heard a car backfire before, which sounded similar. I was about to explain the noise to Teeka when a series of rapid pops bellowed out. That was no mechanical hiccup.
I took off running with Teeka in tow as she did her best to keep up. Such a volatile sequence gave the clear indication of danger and left me concerned for my mom. Only when we arrived at Aunt Helen’s trailer did Teeka and I break speed. That’s when I saw Uncle Jimmy, 
Helen’s estranged husband, behind the wheel of his blue Chevy Nova. Whirling tires spat dust and gravel as he backed the manic machine into the street and barely avoided smashing a parked car. His chestnut skin glistened with perspiration while franticness hardened his face. As Uncle Jimmy scoured for an escape, I thought to wave goodbye.
Just as quickly, I was reminded of the concern for my mother, and I pushed Uncle Jimmy’s hazardous departure aside. I turned to the trailer. On busted hinges, the door hung ajar while the sounds of faint soul music and whimpers drifted from within. I climbed the steps, stretched out my hand and opened the door wider.
Lying on his back, head first, was Curtis, a family friend who courted Aunt Helen. A dapper man with tinted shades and neatly trimmed afro, I was accustomed to seeing Curtis often. He would toss me high above his head, catch me in his arms, then say that I was his main man. I liked Curtis, particularly because I was always tallest when in his arms.
But now Curtis wasn’t standing, all smiles and ready to hoist me in the air. His afro was pushed aside in a disheveled heap while a pool of crimson liquid gathered beneath him. His shades were crooked in a way that revealed his closed eyes. Something was terribly wrong with Curtis, but I couldn’t decide what.
I was even more perplexed by Aunt Helen, who lay slumped at Curtis’ feet. Her body was sprawled across his, like a fallen shield at battle’s end. On her forehead was a cruel mark that oozed red with a distant glare in her eyes that bore through me. “Aunt Helen. Aunt Helen, get up,” I pleaded, though I knew she couldn’t hear me. She and Curtis had transcended beyond the ways of sound.
I would never look at life or death the same after that day. Part of me would stand on those steps for eternity, haunted by the gruesome scene before me. As blood spewed from their tangled bodies, my childhood innocence seeped away. I’d peeped through the doorway of a domestic dispute and saw the wrath of love turned deadly. I’d witnessed the removal of three influential people in my life, whose absence carved an emotional chasm. The facade of life crumbled under the weight of Uncle Jimmy’s mercilessness, and yet the thing that stands out most is that I never got to tell him goodbye.
©Chanton
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he has seen the release of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, in which he was a contributor. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
Every now and then I’m blessed to have a taste of Freedom, depending on how you look at it. There are times when I have to leave one Plantation for another. At that moment in time, my heart skips a beat, my hands get sweaty and butterflies dance in my stomach. And, there she is – Freedom will appear before my eyes. I’ll be able to tell her – Freedom – how much I miss and adore her company. I can explain my love for her and beg her to take me back. Sounds good doesn’t it?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Bobbie George is not only a thoughtful and talented writer. He also has worked training service dogs during his incarceration.
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.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Travis Runnels, is a published author, and is currently working on his second novel. He lives on Death Row.
My dreams – they give me the most trouble emotionally. I go to sleep and when I do – I sleep hard. You can empty a trash bag of aluminum cans outside my cubicle, and nine times out of ten, I won’t flinch. When I sleep, I dream. I don’t dream of unicorns and dragons and supernovas. I dream about my dad – camping trips together, baseball games, Ohio State football, my old life. And I don’t want to come back – not to this nightmare.
At approximately 2:30 am, while sleeping fitfully on a pallet of couch cushions and blankets on the living room floor at my parents’ home, I was easily awakened by the phone ringing loudly in the other room. I glanced over at Sara, the mother of my son, lying next to me. She stirred in her sleep, as though having a troubling dream. Understandable. The events of the past three days left me quite troubled as well. ‘What the hell was Jeremiah thinking?’ I lament to myself.
There was one officer standing slightly in front of all the others, as though he was the one in charge. The bright headlights pointing at me from all the police cars, made it difficult to make out any details. As I turned to him, he told me to keep my hands up and walk towards him very slowly. The grass beneath my feet felt cool, soft, and wet from the dew beginning to cover it. But that didn’t fool me, as I knew that grass was notorious for producing some pretty nasty stickers. I proceeded with caution.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Kenneth-Conrad Vodochodsky is a gifted writer, serving a 30-year sentence in Texas, based on the “Law of Parties”. He can be contacted at:
Days turned into weeks – weeks turned into months. Finally, the day came when he asked me, “Darrell, do you think that I can write good enough to send my dad a letter?” Without saying a word I slid him a blank piece of paper and handed him a pen. As I sat and watched, he painstakingly printed on the paper…
