Day One (Down I Go)

I wake to something crawling on my face, instinctively removing what feels like a very large cockroach as pain jolts through my shoulder and the part of my face I just touched.  One of my nostrils is clogged up making it hard to breathe.  As I exhale through my mouth, I feel the numbness of my lip.  Dried blood has partially sealed my mouth and nose shut.  My top lip is twice as large as normal.  I ignore the pain in my shoulder, which has now turned into a throbbing headache.  I place my hand on the part of my head that hurts the most.  My head also seems to have grown twice as large since I last touched it.  Now, I remember.  All that guard had to do was ask me to leave the chow hall, he didn’t have to put his hands on me.  In that moment when I pushed him away, I forgot the first prison rule I learned when I got here – never touch the correction officer.

Day Three

‘Does the light above my head ever go off?’  Over time, I learn it doesn’t, serving to assist the guards who pass my cell see inside.  They are able to view me through a small square window located on the only door to this hole. 

I hear familiar keys jangle and know a guard is in the hall making rounds.  Before I can debate with myself what kind of round it is, I hear a man announce, “Chow time!”  Shortly after that I hear the bean slot drop open.  The slot is located a few feet below the rectangular window and is where everything from food to mail is passed to a person in solitary confinement.  These items also come as a privilege.  Because I assaulted an officer, my mail is withheld, probably destroyed.  My food is also special.  I’m given ‘food loaf’, an all-in-one baked bundle of whatever is being served that day. 

As I listen to the bean slots open down the hall, I know they are near.  I wait in eager anticipation.  I’m hungry and food loaf is better than no loaf.  Like magic, my slot is opened and presto, food loaf and a paper plate with a plastic spork appear.  I quickly grab it and wait for the liquid beverage that will accompany my meal.  It too will be savored.  Just then, the guy in the next cell decides to ‘jack the slot’, which is sticking a body part out of the slot and refusing to remove it.  The guard delivering the food immediately asks the offender to remove his arm from the slot.  The offender responds with obscenities and an audible spit.  The officer radios for backup, who quickly arrive in a musical symphony of key jangles.  Commands are shouted to the offender, “Offender, remove your arm from the slot!”  I try to see through the square window what’s going on, but my efforts are vanquished by an officer who sees my face and abruptly closes the small square door mounted over the window.  Then I hear an audible ‘whap’, a scream from the offender, something about ‘you broke my arm’, followed by more obscenities.  And just as quickly as it all started, it was over.  Later that night, I hear the offender next to me whimpering about how the guard broke his arm, and how he’s going to sue them and their mothers. 

‘Good luck with that, pal.  This is Texas.’

Day Seven

I try talking to the guy next door through the wall and quickly determine he is mentally unstable.  He talks to himself or some imaginary being in his cell and makes strange noises with an unknown body part.  He laughs uncontrollably a lot. 

I, in my boredom, have managed to count all the cracks in the wall and floor of my cell.  I’ve even managed to make out imaginary images such as demons, women and what can only be described as mythical creatures, all derived from splotches on the wall.  I’ve asked for a book, but as of today – nothing.

Day Fourteen (Sanity Slip)

I’m given a book.  It is delivered by a very attractive female guard.  Her perfume reminds me of the companionship of a woman.  I speak to her, and she seems to still have some compassion left in her.  I won’t see her again.   

The book is 647 pages of kickass action.  The author is some guy named Greg Hurwitz who has written several books about some badass orphan.  I’ve never read a book as fast.  I consider reading it again, but what’s the point?  I already know the ending.  Still no word on when I’ll be getting out of here.  I workout and pray daily.  I also reflect on my actions and how I got stuck in this hole.  Simple things that so many take for granted are essential to maintain my sanity.  I crave a look at the night sky and glimpse of the moon and stars.  A breath of fresh air, even exhaust fumes, would be welcome in this new world.

I wonder how my mother is doing.  I know she must be worried sick about me, especially since I have not been able to call or write.  Maybe she will call the prison and inquire about my well-being.  

The laughter next door becomes contagious.  It’s not laughter of joy.

Day Twenty-One

I’ve been given a blanket to cover up with, which does nothing to combat the cold temperatures.  The blanket is made of the exact same fabric used to cover speaker boxes or upholster the trunk of a car.  It’s getting rough in here.  I remember when I was a child and how I used a blanket as protection.  Protection from the boogyman.  Who was this boogyman, that mysterious monster-man who hid under children’s beds, in closets and in the dark shadowy corners of bedrooms?  Where did he go in the day?  Was it a place like this?  Was the man next door him, the one who rocks me to sleep with his screams and laughter?  Am I the boogyman?

Day Forty-Two (Suicidally Seduced)

I’ve started talking aloud to myself.  I remember what my mother used to say about talking to yourself.  “You’re not crazy if you talk to yourself, unless you start answering yourself.  I can’t remember if I’ve ever done that, have I?  No, I haven’t.”  

Thoughts of my wife and son out there in that cruel world eat at my heart.  I grasp at my chest to quench the pounding crunch of my need to know they’re okay.  All I can do is believe they are.  Then a thought from out of nowhere comes into my mind.  What if I end my life?  For sure all my troubles will be over…  

I start to devise a plan on how I can do it.  I can easily tie the blanket around my neck, tight enough to cut off my oxygen.  I attempt this by straightening the blanket out and twisting it into a rope.  I then wrap that around my neck and tie a knot.  When I’m done, I realize I’ve wrapped my nose and mouth in my attempt.  Death by suffocation, not strangulation.  Halfway through my desperate act, something inside my head tells me, ‘This is not the way.’  If I kill myself, what will they tell my son?  If I kill myself, the Texas Judicial System has won the game. 

The blanket soon starts to itch my face.  Torturing myself before I die is definitely not the way to go.  I unravel the blanket from around my head, ball it up and toss it in the corner.  Later on in the night, I retrieve the blanket from the corner and fold it into a makeshift pillow.  Despite the freezing temperature, I sleep and dream myself out of the hole.  

Day Forty-Three (Small Glimpse of Hope)

I awake discombobulated.  It takes me some time to realize my breakfast is sitting on the floor of my cell.  Someone has opened my cell door, and I was totally unaware.  I pick it up and place it on the sink, which also serves as a table.  I try to go back to sleep but it is impossible.  I get up and perform my daily routine of washing up and exercise.  After two hours of strenuous calisthenics, I sit on the floor and meditate, thinking about my time in the hole and all I’ve been going through, mentally and spiritually.  As I reflect on those things, I feel something crawl across my leg.  I then realize I am sitting in a line of marching ants.  ‘How did they get in here?’  

I follow their path to a small hole where the floor meets the wall.  It dawns on me.  This place that was designed to restrain and isolate me, could also be my way out in the form of convincing myself that if I can survive this environment, I can survive anything this prison throws at me…

ABOUT THE WRITER. I am always happy to have a new WITS writer win a writing contest, and this is exactly what Chiron Francis has done. It wasn’t only his way of sharing his experience in writing, but he also rose to the call of the prompt perfectly. It is not always that those two come together so well. Like many WITS writers, Chiron finds escape in writing, and I look forward to hearing from him again. He can be contacted at:

Chiron S. Francis #2178658
Wynne Unit
810 FM 2821
Huntsville, TX 77349

Mom,

I was in art class the first time I was suspended from school.  Another kid said, “Your momma loves a coon,” so I colored him black and blue.  Got real creative with the crayons, turned the classroom into my playground.  Yeah, it was elementary, but that’s no excuse for defending a woman I never knew.

Now, here I am severed from a lifeline that goes back to Genesis, right before the apple fell not too from that tree and lay there another seed.  You thought I was a blessing, so why did I grow up thinking I was a curse?

House to house and far from home, too young to understand why I was deserted – why couldn’t you give me those hugs and kisses?

Teach me the woman to love and cherish?

Where was my dad?

Did he not think it was important to teach a boy how to be a man?  Or did you feel this system had a better plan?

Let me tell you, Mom, I had to fight to be ahead of my class, only to be graded with A-D-D and separated from my peers.  At least that is what my therapist said right before they disguised the drugs as Ritalin and gave me the whole prescription, like I’m not in a school of gymnasts.  I started flipping down the wrong path.  Nobody even noticed the importance of what was missing, until one day I showed up late for socialism, brought along with me the principle that there’s a knowledge in wisdom for the social misfits, understandings in suspension.

I’m learning from the same corner, the one you met my father on.  The only difference is that as I stand with my back to the world listening to the whispers while reading the writings on the wall, I was greeted by the hard knocks, where you’re either going to stand or fall.  The lesson above all, that those who choose to pave a way – rise, mastering the mind and strengthening those down on their knees, living as slaves to disease and weakness.

Mom, I’m still standing the test of time, but that’s the piece of you that you passed to me.  A heart that beats to its own beat.  Which is why my love for blood run’s soul deep, bridging the gap in my travail, building my family.

ABOUT THE WRITER. Once again – I have the privilege of sharing a new writer and their insightful work. There is so much to be learned through this piece by Robert Linton. The idea behind WITS is to share the entire story through writing, not just the aspects that have historically been a part of the conversation. Robert is determined to write and grow as a writer and person. He can be contacted at:

Robert M. Linton #0880370
Eastern CI
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131

It’s the winter of ’05. Christmas Eve.
With a pillowcase full of Kudos bars
and a half-eaten birthday cake, we run.
Time escapes with us. We follow the half-
frozen creek, the winds whipping through the trees
cracking our cheeks and burning our banished
faces. Dawn finds us first: her sun shining
like a search light. Hunger, regret, fatigue
and fear quickly follow. One slow stumble-
step at a time, we argue and cry through
the thigh-high snow. Refuge comes as a small
cobble-stone bridge curved over the crooked
creek. Finding a tiny alcove below,
we pack in side-by-side and back-to-back.
Too exhausted to eat, we fall asleep:
a bunched-up bundle of lost boys. Men are
laughing in my dreams. Dogs bark. We awake
to state troopers and staff on ATV’s.
Once back at our cottage, I ask a nurse
how they found us. She smiles and says that
they just followed the footprints in the snow.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, and I’ve enjoyed everything he has sent us over the years. I don’t know if we will hear from him again, as he will be starting a new life in the not too distant future. He has spent nearly a decade in isolation. I wish him the very best in all that he does.

Robert can be reached at:
Smart Communications/PADOC
Robert McCracken LG8344
Sci-Greene
P.O. Box 33028
St. Petersburg, FL 33733

As I entered the county jail, a C.O. in intake recognized me as a local tattoo artist. Mine was a high profile case, and I was segregated from inmates with lesser charges. Holding back emotions and the regret that came with the initial realization of what I had done, where I was and all those I had failed, I steeled myself in an effort to make resolve with my guilt and ultimately grow.

Within 24 hours, I was moved to the top floor of the jail where inmates with mainly violent crimes were housed. The pod was on lockdown for a fight. My name was called as I walked to my newly assigned living quarters. “Who dat?” I responded, recognizing the voice as a client of mine from tattoo parties I had done in his neighborhood.

My cell door opened, and I entered. Single-man cell. I cried. Looking at myself in the warped mirror, I decided then that I would come out better than I was in that moment. I was unstable mentally, angry at life, financially uneducated and a flawed character, failing to accept accountability for my reality. I laid down, visualizing the moment of my crime and sorry for the pain I know I caused my two sons, my mother and my family.

I began writing poetry, expressing my regrets and acknowledging the pain I caused so many. So many! I hurt people who also have children, mothers and other family members. There is no reason good enough, no justification for what I did. I turned myself in because I felt the guilt that I did not expect to feel. The guilt and desire to make amends with those I hurt settled in my core like an anchor. How do I grow from this?

I listened to my victims at my preliminary hearing, speaking on what I did and expressing the trauma I caused them. I am a naturally empathetic person, so their pain resonated with me. I hurt people. I realized then that I must be who I am and accept myself with that truth. I don’t enjoy, nor do I desire to hurt people.

At my sentencing, at which I took a plea deal, I apologized to my victims. I don’t know if they felt my sincerity, my disgust with myself, or even my desire to be the best version of myself going forward. I am certain that none of those things really resonated with them for the sight of me must have brought to mind how my actions brought us to that point.

I was fortunate, I think, to be sent to the prison I am currently serving my sentence at. It’s no different than any other prison in regard to the treatment by staff, violence, intoxicants and many other distractions on the path to rehabilitation, but there are many programs that have helped me in my evolution towards a better me.

This time is mine, and I know that I am fortunate for having a foundation of principles guiding me in self-improvement and growth for myself and my family, and a future as a contributing member of society. My thoughts and desires are aligned, and my reality is more tangible because of what I have done with my time within the parameters of my freedom.

Knowledge and acceptance of my own self was the first step, acknowledging my wrong, acknowledging how deeply I hurt my victims, children, family and friends, and knowing what I can do from within these walls to accept and change my reality.

This knowledge made me accept accountability and responsibility for my emotions and character development. I utilize the library to obtain a healthier understanding of all things pertaining to my growth. I have assumed healthier habits and practices in my daily life and deal with freedom in realistic degrees and expectations. I no longer accept powerlesseness over self and have developed the ability to see the value in all things and people, major and minor.

Today I am better than I have ever been because my intentions and actions are clear. I choose to add value to all I encounter in an effort to bring forth a greater good. I know the true test is out in society, and I look forward to the day I am afforded that degree of freedom. I continue and will continue to do those things I know have the beneficial quality of contributing to the greater good.

I now think outside this box and have created books, art, youth programs and other endeavors. And I write this to inspire others in the same situation to change your perception of where you are and what you can do – and what your time means to you.

T.hought I.s M.y E.xistence.

“The best time to plant a tree is 20 years ago, the next best time is now.”

Chinese Proverb

ABOUT THE WRITER. Jerrod Buford is a first time WITS writer, and he did not share much about himself with this submission, but I think the piece itself says a lot about where he is today. I am glad he has chosen to use writing to share his experience. Jerrod can be contacted at:

Smart Communications/PA DOC
Jerrod Buford #ME 9775
SCI Forest
P.O. Box 33028
St. Petersburg, FL 33733