The Pen-City Writers Issue 2 Editor Deb Olin Unferth We’d like to thank Elizabeth Cullingford, Cover Artist Warden Ronald Givens, Ann Warwas, Heather Carlos C. Flores, Jr. Crabtree, Cecilia Smith-Morris, the Windham Designer School District, and the English Department at Elizabeth Haidle the University of Texas at Austin for their Program Director ongoing support. Deb Olin Unferth And thanks to our spectacular, essential crew Assistant Director Scott Guild of volunteers: Adam, Amanda, Andy, Anne Marie, Annie, Barry, Beth, Celia, Cody, Daniel, Intern Denise, Emily, Emma, Ian, Jac, Jamil, Jennifer, Andrea Nelson Jessica, JP, Katie, Lara, Olga, Natalie, Rachel, Art Director Tony, Uriel, Yvonne, and Zac. Elizabeth Haidle The Pen-City Writers is sponsored by the On-Site Program Coordinator English Department at the University of Texas Heather Crabtree at Austin. These original works were created by the students in the Pen-City Writers Certificate Program from 2016-2017 at the John B. Connally Unit in Texas. Copyright 2017 Pen-City Writers Contents I Hate Spiders 45 Peter Smith Just Another Day 9 Chaplain Call 48 Anthony Johnson Kevin Murphy A Kind of Stupid 11 Exteriors: Ten People, Artful Description 51 Jose Maria Garcia Bradly Varnell Rabbit 14 Painful Days 53 Kevin Murphy Steven Perez Visitation 20 The Open Door 56 Carlos C. Flores, Jr. Joel Zubiri I Remember 23 Hallelujah 61 Calvin Massengale Jason Gallegos Having to Be Brave 32 An’ Then I Saw a Roach! 64 Terrance Harvey Jose Maria Garcia A Mother’s Earth 35 A Lifer’s Useless Thought Process 66 Patrick Glenn Jeffries Johnathan Byrd Cathedral 38 My Precious Little Fears 70 James Beavers Patrick Glenn Jeffries Dad 74 Carlos C. Flores, Jr. Splintered Dreams 77 Jose Maria Garcia Just Another Day Anthony Johnson Walking with Mercy 81 Terrance Harvey The Rhythm of the City of New York 87 Every time forgiveness is called for means that a Patrick Glenn Jeffries personal violation has been committed against me in some form or fashion. I take each infraction serious- Friday Night Madness 90 ly, far more seriously than the actual infraction usu- Anthony Johnson ally warrants, but hey that’s just me. All things prior to my incarceration have been The Component of All Living Things 97 forgiven. Doesn’t really seem like much good to hold Kevin Murphy on to them. Most have had no formal burial, no one around to forgive. I guess my act of contrition was selfish and self-indulgent at best. Although I feel bet- ter, I doubt they do; they don’t know I even forgave them. My challenge with forgiveness, though, has taken on new dimensions because of my confinement. This closed environment replays all of the so-called per- sonal violations by the mere fact that I cannot avoid contact with the perpetrators of my vexations. Most likely I will see at least one, if not several, of those I have labeled “Not forgivable with current attitude.” Those I deem unforgivable will be put on a proba- 9 tionary period that could and has lasted up to a year. Sometimes I forgive because of the length of time. Other times it might be because I’m just tired of har- boring the ill effects that come with un-forgiveness. I have, in the past, waited so long that I simply forgot A Kind of Stupid the original infraction and decided to forgive without Jose Maria Garcia even knowing what I was forgiving. Lately I have adopted the ideology of the Chris- tian—to forgive is to be forgiven. In a place that is I got beat down once, back in the early ‘90s. It was the embodiment of un-forgiveness, a place that epit- by four guys who needed my pizzas and pizza money. omizes the socially malevolent view that “guilty” I can sympathize that their miserable lives compelled means one must suffer and suffering is necessary to them to do so. warrant forgiveness—I respectfully dissent. For me, I remember coming to with blood all In my personal attempt to further dissociate my- over me and standing. I guess the worst part were self from the quotidian aspects of prison life, I com- the headaches, which all blended into one giant ache. mit to forgive more freely, and as my first act of for- Also, I couldn’t see much because my eyes were giveness today, I forgive those jerks who won’t stop swollen shut. It was painful, squinting my eyes open. hollering over there—undoubtedly because someone But it was no big deal. After a week off, I healed couldn’t forgive someone else for an infraction of enough to get back to work. I had no fear delivering some sort. those cheesy delights. When I was in middle school, I had my bike sto- len. I had gotten home and I went inside for a drink, leaving my bike on the front lawn. I remember Dad getting home shortly thereafter. When I went back outside, no bike. I figured Dad had hidden it to teach me a lesson about responsibil- ity. After looking all over, I finally had to muster the courage to ask Dad where he had put it. Dad exploded when we knew it was gone. He told me I would have to walk to school from now on. At 10 11 that time, school was 1.9 miles away. At 2 miles, it the trunk up and let’s get out of here!” I was still was necessary to take the bus. Dad told me he was convinced he was coming back to kill me, so I spoke not buying another bike! And that was that. hushedly. So, a few days after that I was leaving the gym But we made it home. My sister said that guy after basketball practice. I walked outside to wait for probably couldn’t afford any more trouble. Still, I my sister to pick me up in the family car, a red Mer- learned that day: Just stand up. The good sometimes cury Zephyr. win the day. The important thing is to keep rolling. Every other thing in that school parking lot van- Bravery really is just another kind of stupid. ished when I spied my orange beauty standing there, the kickstand up. How? And Wow! I walked up to it and noticed some tape added to it but it was unmis- takably my bike. Who else would own something this wonderfully ugly? That was the good and ugly of it. The bad walked up. He was Huge! A monster! It was high school versus nerdy middle school. My sister was keen to inform me later that he was a guy known for getting in trouble. He asked me what am I doing with his bike? Nothing worked for me just then—legs, arms, brains—but somehow my mouth still did. “This is my bike. There’s some tape added but I would know it anywhere.” It was like someone else far away spoke it. There was a pause and I figured I was about to die. But the impossible happened. He didn’t strike my hand off the bike. He didn’t do anything. He just said, “Hey, a guy sold it to me. I didn’t know.” He then walked away with his younger brother, who had also just finished practice. Just then my sister drove up. “Quick, sis, open 12 13 scoring or doing dope. He’s not a bad guy. He has a good heart. He’s just done so many drugs that he’s messed up inside, he’s changed the balance, the structure of his mind. Rabbit Whenever I’m around him I think that I could Kevin Murphy have been just like him, like my sister. I also think that in some ways maybe I am, that my mind isn’t as clear as it should be from all the drugs that I done. If My friend Rabbit is a skinny, animated, wiry, ex-her- I would have been left to my own desires and choic- oin addict. He reminds me of my sister and I think es, I would have done enough drugs that I would be that is why I befriended him. Like my sister, he’s just like them. done so many drugs that he constantly runs around like he just did a shot of dope. A few days ago my friend asked me to write a letter Everything that he does is straight dope fiend. He for him. He said that he doesn’t write too good and I will sell everything and anything he has for pennies told him that I’d help him in a few days when I had on the dollar and buy things, usually the same things time. he just sold, for more than they’re worth. He’ll spend When I got a day off from my classes, I sat down all of his money and then bum coffee and snacks with him to write the letter. from me and others. I try to talk him out of it but he “I already got someone to write a letter for me,” still does it. he tells me, “but he messed it up and I don’t like it.” He’s an older guy and he has no life to speak of. I pulled out a few sheets of paper and told him, All he talks about are the things that have happened “It’s alright, we can write it again. Who are we writ- within the past few days or hours.