Reconciliation

This wretched, terrible truth has experienced two incarnations through Sam. The first, inspired by a song, was a sketch. The second, inspired by the sketch, was a story. Sam makes no apologies for the potentially offensive nature of the story or sketch. You have been warned.

(There seems to be a glitch in Matrix. No matter how the story gets copied down, certain words become underlined and highlighted. This is not part of the work and should be ignored if possible.)

Reconciliation

            Father Lemurty laid the stole over his frail shoulders, taking his place in his fragile chair beside the old confessional screen of the compact booth. It was hot for April; his red vestment clung to his aging frame. Retirement had crossed his mind years ago but his faithful flock needed him. He happily obliged them. With pleasure and satisfaction he watched the children partake in their First Communion—children of men and women he had guided through Catechism decades ago.

            A heavy body entered the chamber opposite him; the door closed softly, further diminishing light around Father Lemurty’s small, bent form. He knew it was a man by the heavy breathing and waited for the penitent to initiate this ancient, exposing transaction. Secretly, it was Father’s favorite sacrament.

            “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been twenty three years and nine days since my last confession,” whispered the voice on the other side of the confessional screen.

            “Kneel, my son,” replied Father, sensing the man was still standing. He was struck not only by the length of time stated but by the precision with which it was relayed. Father licked his dry lips, anticipating the kneeling supplicant.

            The old wooden prie-dieu did not creak under the weight of a body and, after a few awkward seconds, the confessor continued, “I am plagued with the demon of my childhood, Father. He haunts my dreams and eats my soul. I fear I will become him.”

            Father Lemurty gently rubbed his palms on the shiny red cloth of his chasuble, intrigued by this odd prologue and sensing something vaguely familiar in the voice. Something about the way he pronounced words, perhaps. Father probed the supplicant, his curiosity rising, “What have you done, my child?”

            A nervous odor oozed through the veil of confession; Father heard the floor of the closet squeak as the seeker of reconciliation shifted his weight. Father peered at the hanging screen wondering, as he often did, what savory monstrosities it was hiding and would reveal. The screen offered anonymity and the safety of the sacramental seal.

            “He consumes me. Those things he did to me. . . I am dirty. Soiled in a way no water can ever cleanse,” as the confessor spoke, his voice began to resemble a child. Father’s palms began to itch slightly. “I’ve tried so hard over the years. I’ve tried to overcome the monster, but his seed was planted in me. Father,”—oh, the way he whispered that word—“I can’t even make love to my wife anymore. I am physically incapable. And I fear my son is not safe. . .”

            “But what have you done, my son?” asked Father Lemurty, leaning closer, hungry for the unleavened morsel of confession. His palms itched more prominently now for his excitement was coupled with another feeling. A faint expulsion of gas escaped beneath him.

            “Today I will end it, Father,” there it was again, the eerie familiarity with which he whispered certain words. No, not a whisper—he hissed them. “Today I will free myself from the demon. I will feel his blood on my hands.”

            Was it the heat of the day that began to overwhelm Father Lemurty as beads of perspiration formed on his brow? His sweat appeared a coagulating liquid as light reflected off Father’s crimson vestment in the dim aura of the tiny booth. He scratched at his palms uncontrollably as he began to explain, “Dear boy, you cannot confess a sin that has not yet occurred. You must allow yourself to forgive and pray for this man who haunts you. Forgive lest you be one of the unforgiven. Let our Heavenly Father be his judge and do not destroy your self with such terrible deeds. Don’t ruin your life!”

            Silence from beyond the veil. Father perceived the confessional closet empty except himself. The man who refused to kneel had left like a specter. A minute of deafening silence passed when Father inhaled deeply, realizing he had been holding his breath. Father looked to the hanging crucifix on the wall—that epitome of violent absolution—and made the Sign of the Cross as the door yawned open. Standing in the doorway was the monstrous silhouette of a man. Father Lemurty’s nails dug into his palms as the ominous apparition loomed before him. A flash of metal brandished near the angel of death’s waist like the ceremonial blade of an ancient pagan priest, poised for sacrifice. Father finally felt the power of true contrition and clarity as the hiss slithered into Father’s ears with an all too familiar, poisonous caress: “Remember me, Father?”

            Reconciliation.

The following is a sub-par copy of the sketch that was drawn several years ago, which eventually led to the writing of the above story:

None of this terrible truth could have been brought to you without the help of the song that initially inspired it all: "I'm Not Jesus" by Apocalyptica

Click This, Now

Sam suggests reading the story one more time, this time with the song playing softly in the background. Let the loving lyrics lull you...

Goodbye

This week’s selection is another very short fiction and will be a bit softer in nature than some of Sam’s other work. Truth doesn’t always have to be ugly. It just has to be true.

Goodbye

            Charly sat in his favorite chair and looked at the wall across the room. He stared at the empty spot on the wall and tried to smile, but couldn't. He felt relief – he was certain of that – but not joy, not today. Not for either of them. He could hear Lindsay putting the last of her things into a box in the other room. She would be gone soon and he would be free, but that stupid feeling in his stomach just wouldn't go away.

            It had finally happened. It was no shock to anyone, really; they had been performing half-ass CPR on a dead marriage for years. They had taken all the necessary steps to save it – couples' therapy, romantic getaways, the Works – but it was dead. God, was it dead. They were just another statistic in American culture now.

            Charly glanced down at the floor where Lindsay's coffee table had been only two days ago. He reminded himself of what a pain in the ass she had become over the last years; reminded himself of those resentful looks of scorn she would pierce him with. This was for the best. They had hurt each other so deeply and so often, it was a miracle they had not killed each other by now. It was finally being buried, this rotting corpse of a marriage. They were immeasurably better off without each other. Charly looked back up at that empty spot on the wall. Maybe he should see a doctor about his stomach problem.

            Fresh air, that's what he needed. The chair creaked as he got to his feet and slowly walked towards the porch door. No need to carefully avoid Lindsay's precious, mahogany coffee and end tables anymore. He reached the door and slipped outside into the cool, spring breeze; the cement sidewalk felt redeeming on his bare feet. He had built this home with his own two hands. The country air smelled of freshly cut grass and honey locust. He would die here someday – a long time from now, since the ball-and-chain was mercifully leaving him in peace. He had lived here for over twenty years, tending the land and––

            Raising a family. Good Lord, what was wrong with his stomach? The rich, green yard took on a strange emptiness. Empty like that spot on the wall. He walked on as if distancing himself from the empty spot. There was no escaping it though. Everything was emptier. Lindsay had been his other half for a quarter of a century, the only memories he had of this home were with her. Focus on the kids, he thought, they would clear his mind and make the emptiness go away. He had four children, although “children” was now something of a misnomer. His youngest, Johnny, would be graduating from high school next year and going on to college. Oh, but when they were children this yard was alive! Soccer and baseballs littered the yard in the summer while snow forts and angels covered it in winter. This yard held great memories of his kids.

            Their kids. Stupid stomach.

            Charly was in the grass now and he heard the front door open as Lindsay struggled to walk outside with the last, big cardboard box in her arms. He turned, hesitated, then went to help her carry her burden. As he approached his now ex-wife he suddenly realized this was not the first time he had felt this unsettling chaos in his stomach. Instead of walking barefoot through the grass, he saw himself walking down the aisle of a church, towards a minister by an altar; Lindsay, his beautiful young bride, would follow shortly after him. The feeling's meaning stabbed him with painful clarity: to feel so incredibly unsure about such an inevitable, life-changing decision, to believe that it's so right and to worry that it's so wrong. In that moment – walking down the aisle and marching through the grass – Charly felt the weight of death and birth come crashing down on his heart. This was the beginning and the end.

            “Let me help you carry that,” he said and she handed him the large cardboard box. They walked side by side towards her car; slowly, silently, and almost in step. Side by side they walked; a rite; a procession. It felt like the procession after a wedding – or a funeral. That familiar scent wafted into his nose; the scent of the woman he'd built a life with and made children with; the scent of the woman he couldn't stand to live with yet was having an unexpectedly hard time imagining living without. For the first time in years he wondered about her thoughts and, with clairvoyance, knew she shared his. There was a bittersweet comfort in that.

            They were at the car now. The end of that long walk had finally come. There was no need for long goodbyes, silently putting the box in her backseat. He shut the door and turned around only to find himself staring into the big brown eyes of a woman torn between emotions he knew too well. How long had it been since they'd shared a connection like this? They stared at each other for close to a minute, both wanting one last thing but neither wanting to feel the rejection that had been mutually given for years.

            It ended, and it ended the way it had all began: with a kiss. They didn't plan it and it said everything that needed to be said. The kiss goodbye.

            As she drove away, Charly walked back into the house – his house. He walked into the empty room where his favorite chair sat. He looked up at the empty spot on the wall and stared at the lonely nail that once held the picture. It had been a good picture. It had been their picture.

            “Goodbye,” he whispered.

Sonnets

This week’s selection is two pieces of poetry. These are Sam’s first two attempts at writing sonnets, ever. Sonnets are classically about love, and Sam keeps this spirit alive with the focus of these two poems. However, romantic love seems over-publicized. Sam’s love poems attempt to search deeper than the realm of romance. These sonnets were recently published in a very small, humble, local art & literary magazine called Articulate.

Sonnet 1 (or Miscarriage)

It swirls and clots flush down as she spins out

Now shakes, the violent loss of flesh from flesh

A ghost in cave—where once inside: hideout—

Rejected was that egg from haven’s nest.

A push then pull, teeth tighten to my neck

As somber sobbing breaks to bitter wails

She under burden quakes, this spirit wrecked.

Now push ship out and watch the burning sails.

In darkness, hollow heart and hollow womb

As it drifts off, life gone before life known,

Our hope with candled vigil we inhume.

I drown in passion hers, soaked to the bone

            But is it from my wrath her woe is wrung?

            Am I the father-bear who kills his young?

Sonnet 2 (or Custodial Lament)

Would have you die than live that doomèd fate

Would gouge my eyes than watch your tragedy

Of growing up too young, for it’s too late

To stop the wicked play: calamity.

I’ll rip the very heart out of my chest

When mother-dearest’s breast denies your breath.

Oh little hearts that fell down from my nest

You’re singing all the songs that call up death.

Yet now you go to dance with her a while

I’ll wait for seven sleepless nights to turn

The steps you learn will keep you in her, vile

You’ll let her lead until she lets you burn.

            And then I’ll beat my beatless breast and scream

            To rage at gods for children’s torching dreams.

Loser

The following (very) short story was the first conscious writing of Sam. Sam was borne into consciousness some 6 years ago; this was the result of that awakening.

Loser

            Curled on the couch.  Waiting.  Her eyes stare blankly at a movie on TV.  Little Lynn gets off the couch and patters down the hall.  She’s so bored; tired of waiting for Daddy.  She stands at the bathroom door and listens.

            Snap, fizz.  Snap, fizz.

            “Daddy?” she calls in her little voice.  She hears feet come to the door and pressure pushes against it.

            “Daddy’s busy, honey,” Daddy says behind the door, “Go watch the movie.”

            She hesitates and then slowly walks back down the hall.  Snap, fizz.  Smoking.  Lynn doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.  Something about rocks.  Daddy likes rocks that smoke.

            But come play with me, Daddy, she thinks, Please, Daddy?

            Little Lynn knows Daddy loves her.  He’s just busy.  Daddy’s always so busy.  Snap, fizz.  So busy.  She climbs on the couch and curls up on a pillow. She snuggles under a blanket and puts a comforting thumb in her mouth.  Her big, brown eyes stare blankly at the movie.  She isn’t watching it; her thoughts are elsewhere.

            Daddy?  Come play with me, Daddy.  Let me ride on your shoulders.

*                                  *                                  *         

            Looking out the window at the road.  He’ll come home soon, won’t he?  Little Lynn patiently sits by the window, gazing at the road.  Her golden hair falls in her face and she delicately brushes the little strands away from her brown eyes; her eyes so intent on the road.

            “Mommy, where’s Daddy?”

            “At work, honey.  Be patient.”

            And she is.  She is a patient little girl who loves her Daddy very much.  So she waits.  She waits.  The sun goes down and a silver moon rises and still no Daddy.  Reluctantly, but obediently, she goes to bed when her Mommy tells her to.

            Maybe Daddy will come home tomorrow.

                                    *                                  *                                  *

            Pushing a plastic car through the carpet. She opens the doors, pulls out two figurines – a little girl and a man. They hold hands. She makes them talk, “Ok, Daddy! Let’s go to the circus!”

            “Would you like cotton candy?”

            “Yes, please! Can I ride on your shoulders?”

            “Of course you can.”

            Little Lynn puts the plastic girl on the man’s plastic shoulders and walks them across the carpet, humming a happy song to herself. Mommy is sitting on the couch, watching Little Lynn play. Mommy has tired eyes. Little Lynn pauses and looks over her shoulder at Mommy, “Mommy, when is Daddy coming home?”

            Mommy closes her eyes and breathes in slowly; she makes a circle with her lips and blows the air out. She opens her eyes, “I don’t know, honey.”

            Little Lynn waits.

*                                    *                                *

            Playing in the backyard on a cool, autumn afternoon. She rolls in the grass and the dry, dead leaves stick to her hair.  She loves the smell of the outdoors.  Daddy loves the outdoors, too.

            And there he is!  There is her Daddy, by the tree in the yard!

            “Daddy, oh Daddy!” she yells with delight.  She stands up, brushes the leaves off her knees, and runs to him with arms spread wide, her golden hair flowing behind her, “Can you play now, Daddy?  Can you play with me?  Are you busy?”

            “Yes, let’s play,” says Daddy, “I’m not busy anymore.”

            But as she runs into him, she touches nothing; she runs right through him.  She turns around and looks at him in confusion.  His head is lowered and he rubs his eyes with his hands.

            “But, Daddy—“

            “Why?”  Daddy moans and clenches his fists, “Why?” Daddy screams and looks to the sky, “Why did I lose her?”

            “Loser?” Lynn asks.

            Daddy’s smile is sad, “Yeah, baby.  I loser.”

            Slowly, as she looks at her Daddy, he seems not so much there.  She sees past him now and he’s fading away.  She stares in wonder at that fading man; her bottom lip quivers and her brown eyes moisten.

            Mommy walks into the backyard and finds Little Lynn staring in bewilderment at the empty air where her Daddy just was, “Come on, honey, it’s time to go.”

            Lynn walks to her Mommy and holds her hand.  Mommy leads her out of the backyard but Lynn looks back at the vacant spot.

            They get in the car and back out of the driveway.

            Time to visit Daddy at the cemetery.

The Replacement

This piece has received small public attention--receiving two separate Creative Writing awards/acknowledgments--and has become one catalyst for raising Sam's voice. For this reason, among others, "The Replacement" seems to be a good place to begin this blog. Although some of you have already read this, your comments are welcomed and desired.

The Replacement

            A dying bulb flickered, held strong, then flickered again among the other fluorescent lights hanging some twenty or more feet above them, glaring down bright and clear, exposing them as they ate in the Day Room.

            “Somebody oughtta fix that light,” growled Pierce Conrad, a hulking man in his 50s who sported a Fu Manchu and as many scars as he did tattoos. For two weeks now Conrad had been complaining about that light. The cowboy, who sat directly across from him at meals, reckoned it had been about a year since Conrad journeyed to the Hole and that maybe he was itching to go back. Maybe it was time to find another White table to sit at during meals – no reason to be too close to a bomb when it goes off, he figured.

            “Oughtta fix a lotta things,” grumbled Tod Warner whose nervous tic under his left eye was about as spasmodic as the fickle light above them. The cowboy just ate his food peacefully, his mind a thousand miles away again and a contented look on his face. He couldn’t care less about that light and his expression betrayed him. Warner said, looking at the cowboy, “Three months, huh?”

            Smiling too much at this question would have invited a particular kind of attention that the cowboy simply did not need. Smiling too wide would have implied to the other caged wolves that he somehow delighted in their misery, that perhaps they should find a way to make him stay longer. The cowboy turned up one corner of his mouth and vaguely nodded as he chewed the last bite of boiled green beans from his dinner tray. Conrad cleared his throat and eyed the cowboy, “Goin’ home, yah?”

            He looked Conrad in the eyes, confident yet modest, raised his brow and simply nodded again. Just then the cell doors lining the perimeter of the Day Room buzzed and clicked open, signaling the end of chow. In five minutes the trays were neatly placed on carts attended by orderlies; a hundred khaki shirts and pants (and two hundred Bob Barker sneakers) were safely in their cells as the C.O.s walked around both the upper and lower tiers securing them in their concrete boxes.

            Before the cowboy had returned to his cell he dutifully checked the mail-list. His name was not highlighted. This had become a ritual for the cowboy every evening for the past six years: finish chow, check the mail-list, lock up. His beautiful, faithful Alicia would write him long, elaborate letters telling him every detail – every delicate morsel of information – concerning her life and the lives of their two boys, Ashton and Bill Junior. Ash had only been five months old when they came to take his father away. Junior had been four. Slowly, over the years Alicia’s letters had waned in both quality and quantity, and for the past six months they’d halted altogether. He understood. A single mother with two boys (six and ten, no less!), two jobs, and bills to pay – that was his wife. She was an amazing housekeeper, hard worker, and passionate lover. His boys were becoming strapping lads who kept their grades decent and minded their mother, usually. As far as the cowboy was concerned, the only three people in this whole broken world worth a damn were his Alicia and those two boys.

            Before retiring to his bunk to daydream while awaiting evening Rec, the cowboy relieved himself at the utilitarian, stainless steel toilet bolted to the cement wall right next to the exposing cell door. He shook twice and rinsed his hands in the sink which was part of this waste removal apparatus. Slowly and silently he walked across the room and let a disconnected glance drift toward his celly, Donald Johnson, a young gangster wannabe from some suburban town in Ohio. Li’l White, as Donald liked to be called, sat between their two lockers at the small steel table bolted to the floor, rolling cigarettes for himself and his crew.

            Listening to Li’l White talk was something of an amusing embarrassment: “You know these cops always be crampin’ my style. I mean, can’t a brothuh catch a break up in this mothuhfuckuh, G?”

            The cowboy smirked at the ridiculous Ebonics attempt and thought of his last celly, Orenthal, who probably would have bitch-slapped Li’l White the first day, just to set the record straight. Orenthal was an older cat, a proud Black man who knew the reciprocal nature of respect and understood, like the cowboy, that good fences make good neighbors. The cowboy and Orenthal had been amicable and found a common ground that few can in a place where race lines are cold, hard, and sometimes drawn in blood. On the Yard, Orenthal and the cowboy maintained the expected racial division and stuck to their own but never denied they were cool with one another – not to anyone. Orenthal would have put this kid in his place, but the cowboy thought it was funny. On and on he went like a one-man circus sideshow, “My homies on the Yard know wassup. They know how gangsta I be.” It was even more amusing how Li’l White was talking more to himself than to the cowboy, as if he were just practicing his quasi-dialect to impress his “homies”.

            The cowboy sat down on his bunk with a small, relieved grunt. It had not been a graceful 42 years. Removing his Bob Barker tennis shoes he proceeded to stretch his slender but solid frame out over the gray, government-issued blanket and stare longingly up at the bottom of the bunk above him where, pasted and taped into something like a collage, pictures of his wife and children filled his view. They were a mixture of older and newer photos, some reminding him of fond memories and others acting as time capsules gently stinging him with what he had missed. Well, he wouldn’t be missing any more, no sir. He smiled to himself and twisted the tips of his handlebar mustache with rough, cracked fingers. Alicia was the epitome of beauty to the cowboy, with those supple breasts and immaculate hips that switched seductively yet elegantly as she walked. Unlike himself, Alicia had aged gracefully and he gazed with a throbbing desire at her more recent pictures, thinking of those intense letters she had still been writing a couple of years ago. He had saved every letter and kept particular guard over the ones in which she would describe, in vivid detail, how he used to ravage her, begging him for it again. He would revisit these letters from time to time when the cell-block was snoring and let memories of hot, sultry nights envelope him with her smooth embrace; the climax of her passion finally expressing itself through her perfect mouth.

            His gaze wandered to a picture of her six years younger, and he looked at her sad eyes. She was in the backyard of their beautiful country home holding tiny Ash and staring off beyond what the picture could capture, perhaps beyond what sight could capture. The pain in her eyes spoke of separation and shattered dreams. How many times had she told him to stop growing? How many times had she said it was time to invest their money and close up shop? She was the one who knew Roy couldn’t be trusted, too. Said he smelled like a snake. The cowboy was a man though, dammit, and told her he knew what he was doing. Then Roy turned State’s evidence on the biggest pot operation in 500 square miles, and here the cowboy – the man – sat. And he’d gone federal, too, almost a thousand miles from home.

            Directly above his nose, clinging desperately to the bunk’s metal surface by two strips of old, curling tape, was an 8-year-old Bill Junior in a baseball uniform, holding his baseball glove out in front of himself as if he were about to catch a ball. In his day, the cowboy had been the starting pitcher of his high school baseball team and had one helluva fastball – fastest in the county. For a moment the cowboy closed his eyes and he was in their front yard tossing a ball back and forth with Junior, teaching him proper technique while Ash twirled on the tire-swing nearby. Alicia would be cooking and soon, yes, there she is, at the door calling her men in to dinner. Playfully the cowboy runs over to Ash and picks him up, tossing him into the air and then zipping him around like a living merry-go-round. Junior races over and tackles the cowboy who dramatically falls to the ground in a symphony of laughter and Alicia rebukes them in a coy tone from the doorway.

            Bang!

            The cowboy’s eyes shot open.

            Bang! the cell door vibrated violently with the force of a fist.

            “Ranger,” called a voice from just beyond the threshold. The cowboy looked up to see Sgt. Wilderson standing there with an envelope in his hands, “Ya got mail, Ranger. Somebody fergot to highlight yer name.”

            Quickly the cowboy got up from his bunk and stepped agilely to the bars as the C.O. passed the envelope to him. His eyes lit up as he read the name on the return address.

            “Wife wrote ya,” informed the cop as if it were his duty to present the obvious. Wilderson cupped his chubby fingers around his bulbous belly, cradling it, and smiled the wide, yellow grin of a jackal, “Maybe that slut finally got smart and left yer pathetic fuckin’ ass.”

            The cowboy’s jaw clenched and he glared not at Wilderson, but into him, into his body – calculating where the most important organs were located under all that fat. The cowboy felt the letter in his hands and snapped out of it. Wilderson’s smile hissed, “Say somethin'. Go 'head.” The cowboy knew this was precisely the cop’s intention as he hid so bravely behind the protection of the iron bars and his title – to lay a finger on a C.O. was to sentence one’s self to several more years inside.

            “You sure dey didn’t miss mah name on dat list, yo?” called out Li’l White.

            “Shut the fuck up, Johnson,” sneered the cop and winked at the cowboy before walking off.

            “That mothuhfuckuh’s a bitch, f’real yo,” muttered Li’l White, staring down and speaking into the paint-flecked table. The cowboy walked back to his bunk as Li’l White continued to mumble, “If we was on the streets and he came at me like that? Pop! Bust a cap in his ass, fam. Disrespectful, fat mothuhfuckuh. He don’t even know how I be representin’. . .”

            Li’l White’s voice drifted off into oblivion as the cowboy delicately opened the letter, handling the paper as an archaeologist might handle ancient parchment. Slowly the cowboy inhaled his wife’s scent: a familiar and delicious fragrance that lingered on all her letters. He began to read. As he read, everything changed. Everything.

Dearest William,

            It has been six long years without you. I have been lonely and scared and I have carried these burdens on my shoulders alone, but I have found strength in the dark hours of sleepless nights. I don’t know how to say these things which must be said. Over the last year I have grown immeasurably and have not allowed myself to be chained down by my obligation to you…

            Do you think this is easy for me to say? It’s not. It kills me. Bill, there is someone else. He is a good man and he really cares about us. He cares for us, too. I have been able to quit one of my jobs because of him and eventually he says he wants to free me from the other one – if I want, that is. I love him, Bill. I’m sorry.

            The boys have taken to him as well. Ash is wild about him and Junior is slowly coming around, too. In fact, he’s Junior’s baseball coach and Junior is becoming quite the first baseman. He’s really turning our lives around, Bill. I’m sorry.

            Please don’t try coming here when you get out. I’m in the process of filing for a divorce. This hurts to say, Bill, but there’s just no other way. I do hope the best for you in life and want you to succeed when you get out. Look at it this way: you get a fresh start. Nothing to hold you back.

I’m Sorry,

Alicia

            The paper fell from his hands to the cold, unforgiving cement floor. He sat on the edge of his bed with his elbows on his knees and his head drooping below his shoulders. He was a man, defeated. His eyes began to burn. His stomach twisted and stretched and he felt his supper rising in his throat. Sweat began to bead over his forehead and on the back of his neck, but he was cold. So cold. He could hear his own heartbeat pumping, pounding in his eardrums. Hadn't it been obvious, cowboy? Hadn't the letters stopped? The telltale signs were all there, demanding his attention, and he had ignored them. He refused to see it happening and now her goodbye cackled mockingly up at him.

            Breathe in. The cowboy forced himself to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. He stopped allowing his imagination to torture him; he pushed the thought of a stranger in a business suit from his brain, ripped the image of Junior on first base from his mind, and flung the picture of hands squeezing his wife's breasts and gripping her hips to the farthest reaches of his disintegrating soul. He buried the pain quickly and efficiently, replacing it with carnivorous fury. He found his center and his eyes refocused. His celly’s voice came back, so shrill and annoying. The kid had never stopped talking, “. . . and I keep tellin’ that bitch I need my money! I know she’s getting’ her taxes back soon and I need some mothuhfuckin’ paper on my books, fam. I gots t’get paid. I don’t keep fat bitches around for my health. I need that dolluh!”

            What the fuck was this insipid brat whining about now? The cowboy looked up and stared at this pathetic waste of flesh who betrayed his pitiful identity crisis with every word he uttered. The cowboy’s jaw clenched. He put on his shoes and stood up. He stepped on his wife’s final letter as he moved in front of his locker – a metal closet that contained all his belongings in the world. He spun the dial on his padlock. 23-14-32. Click. Uninterested in the contents of his locker, he simply cuffed the padlock in his fist. Breathing slowly and methodically he began to pace the cell like a puma in a zoo. Li’l White looked up from the table and glanced curiously at his older celly who was suddenly acting peculiar. The cowboy stopped pacing as he came to the cell door and peered out through the bars at the huge clock on the Day Room wall. Five minutes to Rec. The incessant flickering light near the ceiling of the hall caught his attention and he snarled. He tossed the padlock up and down in his hand to a silent cadence. Feral eyes darted down with hypersensitive vigilance to Sgt. Wilderson, hands on his belly, walking around contentedly like a prize turkey.

            “Hey . . . what are you doing?” called out the uncertain voice of Donald Johnson behind him.

            “Fixing some things!” as the cowboy roared “fixing” he spun in his tracks and by the time he got to “things” a perfect fastball was leaving his outstretched hand. The punk had no time to react as the padlock came in on its mark, colliding with his right cheek. His head snapped back, a small shower of hot, sticky blood painting a very postmodern picture on the brick wall behind him. The cowboy walked forward, picking up the padlock. He approached the motionless brat, placed two fingers just under his jaw, got a pulse. The punk’s right eye hung from its socket like a festive red and white Yule tree ornament. He picked up the freshly rolled cigarettes and put them in his shirt pocket, figuring Li’l White wouldn’t be in any state to share them with the Blacks who owned him.

            The cell door popped open for evening Rec as the cowboy reached down and untaped the razorblade imbedded in a toothbrush from the underside of the table. The cowboy put the shank in his back pocket and gripped the padlock tightly as he walked out of the cell. He could use some real solitude, but first there were some things that needed fixing.