"An aluminum john boat?"

"It's a little different for everybody."

"Yeah, but, it's just a john boat. Like the one I got from Wal-Mart."

"Yep."

"So how does this work?"

"You get in. Don't fall out. We go across."

"So, what if I stay here?"

"Then you dwell in a place dear to you until you go insane. Those around you are driven into madness or despair, then they leave you behind. Best case scenario."

"What's the worst case?"

"Something finds you."

"You found me."

"I find everyone."

"What else is there?"

"Trust that there are worse things than death."

What follows is an account of true events as related to me by a Correctional Officer serving honorably for the last twenty years. He's currently a Captain, having worked his entire career in Georgia State Prison.

_______

"Robert Adam Lane the Third. You gave your soul to Him on May 7th, 1989, and it was a lie. A lie that you told the whole time you held your breath in that brownwater river. A lie you smiled out at that those holyrollers on the bank. Lies are mine, Lies are mine. Mine." The last "mine" trailed off into a phlegmy wheeze.

These words were clearly audible, despite the man lying face down and away from the windowed door to the isolation cell. The heavy steel meal-flap was standing open to facilitate communication and accommodate feeding times, but usually the cell's hard surfaces made an echo that distorted every sentence into chaos. This man's words, though, were not only audible, but guttural, far deeper than the inmate's normal speaking tones.

"I am His. I am His," Robert whispered, his voice tight and his chest light from raw fear.

There was no way for the inmate to have known his full name, and there was no way for him to have known that dark and shameful secret that Robert had never spoken aloud.

_______

He was just a kid when he was baptized. He didn't really understand the significance or the need until he and his wife had their first son. Introspection accompanied late night feedings and changes; the need for something greater and a higher purpose drove him to accept the religion he'd long ago been a part of, but had never really had be a part of him.

He had taken the job in the county's number two industry. First was farming, chiefly cattle. Second was the State Prison.

He had been on the job for three years when he encountered Simmons, David R., Number 200400097. Simmons had transferred in from another facility, and he was on year two of a six year sentence out of Atlanta. He had been in medical isolation for most of his incarceration, and he was now in disciplinary segregation for his own safety and the safety of others. Medically speaking, physically, there was nothing wrong with him. Psychologically, he had several diagnoses that required a small buffet of medications morning and night.

Robert's encounters with Simmons had been completely routine. Meals were delivered, medications were administered, the head count was conducted. No conversations ever occurred outside of "Good morning, please, and thank you."

However, every day, each and every single day that Robert stood shift in the isolation unit, Simmons would "act out" between 2 and 2:15 pm. These episodes mostly consisted of shouting, dancing, stripping, and speaking in tongues or singing. No seizures or convulsions, no physically damaging behavior ever presented itself and necessitated that restraints be used. One could practically set their watch by when these episodes would come to pass, which was in itself odd...because inmates in isolation had absolutely no way to tell time.

To make matters even more interesting, after a few weeks, Robert's supervisor claimed that the episodes only went down when Robert and one other officer were in the building.

There was no exterior window nor any way for Simmons to have heard or seen when Robert was working a duty rotation in Isolation, until Robert himself came to the door.

Some days, Robert never went into the cell blocks, instead, he worked solely in the control room...and still, the episodes presented themselves at around 2pm.

____________

Robert never told anyone at work about what Simmons said. He did his job, day in and day out, and he did his best to pretend that nothing had happened.

He always tried to avoid being in the cell blocks around 2pm.

For several weeks, this worked, until one day, time got away from him, and he found himself doing a head count...at two fifteen.

When Robert came to the window, his heart stopped.

Standing stock-still with his nose inches away from the reinforced glass, Simmons was completely rigid, absolutely, perfectly tense, and on the balls of his feet. Every muscle in his naked, wiry frame was taut, as though his whole body was experiencing a cramp. His eyes were saucers, opened as wide as they would possibly go, and they constantly rolled. Around, around, back until only the whites would show, and then back down, and around and around.

When Robert's eyes met his, Simmons stopped his eyerolls. Silence filled the cell and the hallway.

Laughter, slow and low, greeted Robert, and then that same guttural voice that had haunted Robert for weeks, spoke.

"Adam Lane the Third. Would you like to see what we do to this man when no one watches? Let us show you."

With that, Simmons head-butted the reinforced glass window. His forehead hit with such force that the steel door shook in its frame, and Robert was amazed that the glass didn't spiderweb. Twice, he hit the window, and before Robert could call for support to get Simmons restrained, a fourth and fifth impact sounded on the steel edge of the windowframe, and as suddenly as the assault began, it ended.

Simmons regained his tensed pose on the balls of his feet. His eyes, still wide as saucers, met Robert's. Blood slowly poured from large gashes above the inmate's eyebrows, covering his face in a red mask. There was absolutely no expression, no indication of pain, anger, or distress.

Perfectly impassive, Simmons stared.

Robert broke eye contact and walked on.

A short time later when medics arrived to clean him up, he had curled up and was asleep on his cot, and at final meal-call of the day, he said "Thank you" to Robert in his normal speaking voice as though nothing had happened.

Robert could barely hide the shake in his hands as he handed over the tray of food.

_________

Robert had grown up in the Pentacostal church. His grandmother, 93, still went every Sunday and Wednesday, and twice a month she attended Sunday School.

Robert was driving her to a Wednesday evening service when he told her about Simmons.

Her hand, covered in parchment-thin skin and decorated with liverspots and bruises, gripped his on the steering wheel. He drove with his left as she, with surprising strength, took his right hand in both of hers.

"Don't let him in, son. Don't you let him. He knows when those b'long to Jesus come 'round. He smells it. He hates it. You pray on it, yhear? You pray to Lordjesus, I'll pray with you. You pray with me today and you lookit that man in the eye the next time he acts the fool. You lookit'm and you tell'm to give you his name by the will of the Lord. He will. You ain't gonna unnahstand him, son, but he will. He'll do it if you're right with th'Lord. Get right, boy, and stay right. And you get clear. You stay away from that'un."

His grandmother was telling the truth.

____________

Weeks went by, and Robert heard nothing unusual out of inmate 200400097. Just when he was beginning to think that the whole thing was a strange game, something happened.

Simmons had maintained his routine of "showing out" at around 2pm daily. By coincidence, and not design, Robert had not found himself on the floor at these episodes. Ever since the day he'd rammed his head into the doorframe, Simmons had been nonviolent, only whispering, yelling, or singing to himself during his regular shows.

It was mid-song that Robert entered line of sight for Simmons. Abruptly, the singing stopped, and Simmons faced the door.

"I don't like it when you're here, Lane."

This came out as all one word, a husky whisper, but still that deep tone that was so unlike every other time the prisoner spoke. "Lane" became "laaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyynnnnnnnnnnn" in the latest attempt to rattle the officer.

Angry, Robert faced the inmate. "Hey. By Jesus, tell me your Name. Who are you? By Christ, what is your NAME?" Robert shouted the last word, and the echoes filled the concrete hallway.

Simmons recoiled as though struck. He looked to be in physical pain, but Robert heard him speak. The jeering, cheerful face was pinched, and a word came from his lips in a rasp. Robert heard it clearly, but he couldn't understand it. It sounded foreign, it sounded alien.

It sounded Other.

"I have heard your Name. Never. Speak. To. Me. Again."

With that, the inmate curled up into a ball on his bed.

That was the last time that David R. Simmons ever spoke to Robert A. Lane, III.

___________

Robert Lane's hand shook as he snubbed out his last Marlboro Red. A collection of them sat bent, burned and broken in the silver ashtray between us. We both leaned our elbows on the pinewood picnic table where we'd shared a meal and a story.

He thumbed through the pages of the book by Malachi Martin I'd been reading before he sat down to eat with me today. Cover fluttering in the wind, "Hostage to the Devil" had gained its own seat at our table as he put it down next to the remains of my chicken salad sandwich.

"I don't need to read about this in a book or see it in a movie, man. I've seen it in real life. What scares me most, though, is that it has seen me."

You writers confound me.

Tickle me.

Tease me.

Torture me.

How do I write like that, too?

Show don't tell they say.

Your grammar sucks in a really big way.

If only it were numbers I could display,

then show don't tell would certainly play.

How do I write like that, too?

I have to practice what comes easy to some.

But I suppose they feel the same about easy found sum.

Wanting what we don't have we sometimes succomb,

nearly forgetting the challenge we mustn't shy from.

How do I write like that, too?

The secret I think is to never stop pressing the keys

Because that would be a fate worse than disease

A mind fully exercised is never appeased

For it seeks to learn what is not yet expertise

I will write like that, too.

If I could carve up these words

into something close to

beauty

or

truth

I would shape them into nocturnal arrows

send them flying east

past Ursas of varying pitch,

through mazes of simple stars,

whose only purpose was wishing

instead of advising shepherds or

wood wanderers or

wayward cowboys,

All looking for guidance

from a careless Venus

rather than an orb of incandescence.

Underestimated in strength

her wavelengths

are l o n g e r

less visible to uncomplicated eyes

they are heat

they are combustion

and radiation

the fire of 110 suns.

a pillar of the sky

That these lines could

resonate across limitless space

strike deep with truth

remind you of your brilliance;

that you are not just a star out of place,

low on a foreign horizon,

borderline between stability and variability,

but a tempest of fire

fusing elements into substance

moving, expanding,

preparing to slough off a common shell

to unveil your true brilliance.

“You’d want to keep me. I’d want to be kept. What a disaster that would be.”

It felt like a devastating blow to her ego that she might want to belong to someone, with someone. She had maintained her autonomy for such a long time, and relished her independence.

“I like the idea of it, but I don’t consider the likelihood of such a thing having any kind of duration. I sometimes fantasize about someone being in charge, but ultimately I’m a bit of a control freak.” 

“Well, you’ll need to let that go. Control is an illusion. Ultimately, we are leaves on the wind.”

“Watch how we soar.” She breathed the words through a smile more than spoke them, though he heard her.

“Is that part of a poem?”

She turned to him, incredulous.

“I am a leaf on the wind, watch how I soar? You seriously have no idea what I’m referring to right now?”

“No. Should I?”

“I aim to misbehave?”

“Ooh, now that sounds fun.”

She bit her lip and turned away. This wasn’t going to work after all. 

You're sure roses are red?

That's just one point of view

Because what I see as ruby

Looks emerald to you

What you might call green

In it's variable hues

All looks the same

Until it strays toward blues

To cries of 'misrepresentation!

Flowers labelled askew!'

Well, to me there's no difference 

Between violet and blue. 

I've learned to adapt

I do fine, I make do

But I don't believe all that I see

To be true. 

Since the world moved on, men sometimes found themselves needing to be moved.

One such man moved no more.

What passed as whiskey slid from the dirty glass and down the throat of the saloon's newest patron. He placed his still-warm revolver on the scarred wood of the table and he grimaced at the blank expressions looking back at him. Relaxing in his chair, he stared at his audience.

A few lanterns hung from hooks above the tables, and the firelight from the hearth cast what should have been a warm glow across the room. The smells of a spicy stew, the sour scent of homebrew, and the coppery crimson odor of violence all mixed to create an altogether unwelcoming atmosphere.

His gaze swept across every man and woman in the bar, and each pair of eyes turned away from his own. One girl even made the sign of the cross, and he could hear the whispered prayer to the Manjesus.

Silence, except for the crackle of logs from across the saloon, was the only other sound.

He spoke softly.

“I’ve done what I came here to do. This man did what he came here to do.”

With that, he kicked the corpse on the floor.

“The killing is done, and you’re better for it."

The air was still.

"I’ll soon be leaving.”

A lone voice, barely more than a whisper, responded: “Thankee-sai.”

Stony faces and sad eyes turned away from the Gunslinger, and he poured himself another drink.

His hand almost didn’t shake when he reloaded his Big Iron, but no one seemed to notice.

He thought it would get easier, but the weight of every soul he sent on still threatened to crush him down more firmly to this earth, even as it spun beneath him.

It was an odd thing, that.

Even as he felt pressed, even as he felt held down by each drop of blood he shed, he knew that the world was moving on, but he wasn’t.

He was being held in place, frozen in a time the world had left behind.

The Gunslinger left a silver coin on the table when he finished the bottle.

Calmly, he walked out into the night, continuing pursuit of the man in black.

She'll be beautiful

When the night catches the day

When all the dreams she's left on my pillow

Begin to dance across my bedroom floor

To the music of our breaths

And the morning storms

And the wanting

No

The need to return

To those dreams

To those breaths

To dancing

Yes dancing

Again and again

When I

Her

The sun

Can take no more

Only the moon and my will

Wanes

Still

She'll be beautiful

With each ache

Each long drawn fit

Every arched trembling surprise

Her hair a perfect storm

And the dancing

Yes dancing

Even in her eyes

Oh how those dreams

Demand the notice

Of each waking moment

And each moment exists

Without the burden of time

She'll be beautiful

When I pull myself from this slumber

She always is

She hummed as she stitched, the delicate thread whispering through the thick material with only the slightest of resistance. Tuneless and meandering, it had become a mantra, to keep her focused. Where she had started, the letters were large and messy, before space consideration and the proliferation of his content necessitated she become adept at her practice.

“Lalala

yes I am

your biggest fan

Indeed I am...”

When finished, he would appreciate the masterpiece he’d helped create.

Glancing at the screen, she copied the next line of prose meticulously onto her thigh, then devotedly pushed the needle into soft flesh.