Stories from the Pen of a Prisoner: Volume One

By Marcus A. Stockton and William S. Ray

El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz (Malcolm X) once said, In the hectic pace of the world today there is not enough time for meditation or for deep thought. A prisoner has time that he can put to good use. Id put prison second to college as the best place for a man to go if he needs to do something. If hes motivated, in prison he can change his life.
Strong blood flows through my veins. It is the blood of my ancestors, which sustains me. They persevered through capture and enslavement, and they triumphed even as they lay in the filthy hatches of slave ships. My ancestors survived the Middle Passage and the auction blocks. One of my favorite female authors, Elwidge Danticat, once wrote in her book, The Farming of Bones, The dead who have no more use for words leave them as an inheritance for their children.
This book is for my great grandparents, Arthur and Minnie Taylor; my grandparents Arlen and Emily Whaley; and my parents Lenel Whaley and Walton Stockton.
The words of this book are my own. But they originated in the blood of the people who came before me; my family gave these words to me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493155453

Marcus A. Stockton

Marcus Stockton may be in prison but not so, his mind, heart, and imagination. It is therapeutic for him to be able to let his imagination run free through his pen. Marcus is an autodidact who writes like a “pro,” but his writing abilities are still in the embryonic stage. Readers can anticipate a plethora of more suspenseful stories by this young author. This compilation of short stories is Marcus’s first whirl into the world of fiction writing.

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Copyright © 2014 by Marcus A. Stockton.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 12/27/2013

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CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

FOREWORD

THE STORIES

RENEE

MY FATHER

THE DEVIL’S HOUSE HAS RULES

GANGSTA

GAMES OF DEATH

BAG LADY

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I waited patiently for the LORD; and he inclined unto me, and heard my cry. He brought me up out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings.

Psalm 40: 1&2

So without a question or a doubt, I would like to thank and praise Almighty Father God, and His Son, my Lord and Savior, Jesus the Christ, for making all of this possible in my life.

I would like to acknowledge the help, encouragement and support of Arthur and Minnie Taylor, Arlen and Emily Whaley, Lenel Whaley, and Walton Stockton. I would like to thank Carletha Whaley and her children. I would like to thank Keia Gross and her children, Glary Moon and his family, Rufus Horton and his family, William Ray and his family, Rev. Dr. William Anderson and his family, Mrs. Alberta Johnson and her family, Miss Shannon Bracey and her family, all of the members of St. Lucille AME Zion Church in Maryland.

God bless you all!

FOREWORD

Marcus Stockton may be in prison but not so, his mind, heart, and imagination. It is therapeutic for him to be able to let his imagination run free through his pen. Marcus is an autodidact who writes like a pro, but his writing abilities are still in the embryonic stage. Readers can anticipate a plethora of more suspenseful stories by this young author. This compilation of short stories is Marcus’s first whirl into the world of fiction writing.

In this group of stories you will be intrigued, informed and entertained. Beginning with the first lines of the story "Renee you will be caught up in such a way that you will scarcely be able to stop until you reach the surprisingly unpredictable ending. These stories are cloaked in erotic passages, often expressed in language of the streets. Even though this is fiction, the reader is left to wonder just how much of Marcus’s writing is based on his actual life experiences. Marcus Aaron Stockton is the son of a single mother, Ms. Lenel Yvonne Whaley. He was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and—in his own words—I grew up in the hard cold mean streets of Philadelphia and Washington, D. C."

Marcus’s education is primarily from the D. C. Public School System and the streets of Washington.

As you progress from one story to the next you will be filled with the expectation that you’re going to have another exciting Roller Coaster ride of mystery, sex, violence, entertainment, and philosophy.

ENJOY!

William Ray

Owner and Operator of

RAY’S TYPING SERVICE

Mitchellville, Maryland

Web: raystypingservice.com

RENEE

The two of us are multitude,

Without you I am dead.

I’d rather not be

Than to be deceived

By one who keeps me alive.

The pigeons of my conscience

Make shadows on the wall.

The cannibal that lives within my mind

Leaves no room for imagination.

I regret just this.

Unnamed author in

Huey P. Newton’s

Revolutionary Suicide

As long as I live I will never forget Renee. I will remember her for the rest of my life. She was my lover, my friend, and my wife. She was my inspiration. I met her while I was running around downtown D.C. looking for a job the day after Valentine’s Day. I didn’t even notice her at first. I had a whole lot of different things on my mind. My eyes were searching for Help Wanted signs on buildings; my ears were distracted by car horns, and my mind was busy rehearsing old instructions given to me by my high school Guidance Counselor.

Look presentable. Smile. Act friendly. Keep eye contact. Speak directly and clearly.

Yeah, it has been a long time since I had a job. I have been out of the loop. But I have a valid excuse. I’ve been in prison. I need a job. I need a job badly. Mrs. Rose, my damn Probation Officer, is always breathing down my neck about finding some stable employment. In her banal way of expression she says, Come on, Mr. Michael Robinson, you must find employment.

And I just stare at her. Shit! Like it is so easy to find a job out here in these streets nowadays. The country is in a recession, unemployment rates are high, the murder rates are high, drug use is high, crime rate is high, incarceration rate is high, and recidivism is high. Damn! I feel trapped between a rock and a hard place.

So I didn’t even notice Renee at first. I was too distracted. I had just gotten home. I had only been free about a week, and everything was everywhere around me. But I settled my mind down a little bit and looked around. She was just standing there looking at me. God! She was so beautiful! She commanded my attention. I walked over and introduced myself. We found a little bench on the sidewalk and sat down. We talked. My job searching was forgotten and thrown out of the window. My Probation Officer’s nagging words were forgotten. All of my worries and problems were forgotten. The whole world had vanished, disappeared, and gone away, while I sat down on a bench and talked to Renee. Time limped along on crutches. And we just talked and talked. I looked at my watch, and reality and responsibility reminded me that I had some important appointments to keep. I didn’t want to leave, but I had to go. Renee had to go. But I didn’t want us to part. We exchanged numbers, and promised to call each other later in the evening.

I will never forget the first time I saw Renee. It was magical. I still remember when she walked away from me, and I felt something pulling at my heartstrings. Something I haven’t felt in a very long time.

With bated breath I waited for Renee’s call. I was anxious. I was nervous as hell. I paced my sister’s living room like some expectant father in a hospital delivery room, awaiting the arrival of his first child. Every time my sister’s telephone rang I thought it was Renee. My Sister, Carmella, was sick of me. Her children were sick of me. And if her dog, Buck, could talk, he would probably be sick of me, too. My sister told me that I should call her first. But I refused. I didn’t want to seem pressed. But Carmella laughed at that and reminded me that I was pressed. So, after some hesitation I heeded her advice and went to pick up the telephone. But before I could pick it up it started ringing. And when I answered it Renee was on the line. Carmella and her children started clapping and shouting hallelujah as they left the living room so that I could talk to Renee privately. Renee sounded as good as she looked. I found myself fumbling for words as if we were face to face. Renee laughed good-naturedly at my apparent discomfort. She had pity on me. Renee asked me if I wanted to take a ride with her? And I just transformed into a happy grinning acquiescing fool. Carmella came back into the living room. I stuck my tongue out at her playfully. And she rolled her eyes at me and disappeared somewhere inside of her house again.

Renee and I said a few more words. I gave her my address, and within an hour Renee honks her car horn. Carmella and I stand side-by-side as we look outside of the living room window at Renee standing beside some new model Mercedes Benz. I am surprised. Carmella is shocked. Her children are ecstatic. That first night Renee met my family is something else that I will never forget, or seeing Mella’s face as I strutted out of her house and jumped into the car with Renee and went off into the night.

We drove all over Washington, D.C. that night. Southeast. Northeast. Northwest. Southwest. We went up Constitution Avenue. We went down Pennsylvania Avenue. We drove through Georgetown. We went around Howard University and enjoyed the sights and sounds on Georgia Avenue. We rode through Rock Creek Park, Anacostia Park, and Fort DuPont Park. Renee played Phyllis Hyman. We listened to Nina Simone. I wanted to cry. Renee took me to the area of D. C. where she grew up. She showed me the house where she lived. I met a few of her friends. I met her mother. I sat in the living room looking at Renee’s baby pictures and listening to Renee’s wild adventures during her adolescent and teenage years. I saw Renee’s prom pictures and found myself becoming jealous of the guy that was lucky enough to take her to the prom. I looked at her graduation pictures and imagined myself walking down the aisle with her to receive her diploma. I saw Renee go off to college and come back home with a degree and a little glimpse of the intriguing woman that I beheld in front of me.

Renee’s mother, Miss Nat, was as graceful and beautiful as her daughter. Miss Nat was just the more mature and seasoned version of what Renee would later bloom into. Renee’s father had died. He was the victim of a robbery that had turned into a homicide. But he had done his part in Renee’s life. So did Renee’s mother. Yeah, Natalie and Reginald Jones brought a special girl into the world that blossomed into a fabulous woman.

Time went by real fast. It had gotten real late. Miss Nat said goodnight and went off to bed, leaving Renee and me alone in the living room. We laughed. We joked. We talked. We kissed. We went into Renee’s bedroom and made love. It was wonderful. Afterward we snuggled and we cuddled. I told her about how I grew up. I told her where I grew up. I talked about my mother to Renee. I told her how she died. I told Renee very little about my father. I didn’t know a whole lot about him. But I gave her what little I had. I told Renee about what I did to go to prison. And I told her how I spent my years in prison. She listened. She tried to understand. I cried. She understood and held me tighter. I slept peacefully in her arms that night. I woke up to the beauty of another day, still wrapped up in the arms that brought me back to life.

The days went by really fast. Days of bliss. Days of joy. Days of love. I glowed. Renee glowed. We glowed together. Our love shone brightly. Renee reluctantly went to work. She wanted to stay around me. But her job in the Federal Government was important. It paid the bills. But getting out of a warm bed, and untangling arms and legs was getting harder to do every single day. Carmella and her children loved Renee. And Renee loved them. My nephews, the twins, Daniel and David, started calling Renee Auntie Renee. Mella had already started calling Renee Sis. Even the dog, Buck, nuzzled up against Renee affectionately as she walked through the front door. The whole house was bewitched. And it all started with me. Ole big bad Michael Robinson.

I may have survived my mother’s death. I may have survived prison. But this world of love that I have been ensnared in has me captured in a world of happiness that I never believed existed. I survived many pitfalls in life. And they all led me to this. I overcame it all so that I could kiss and hold the beauty of my life in my arms. I’m in love. And I’m not ashamed about any of it. I am in love. Like the song says, Find one hundred ways. I find one hundred ways to show it. I go to Renee’s job during her lunch break, and I eat with her. I have met all of her associates at work, and the ladies all smile and grin in my face. Renee and I take long walks together. We are always seen holding hands. We exhibit that glow that love produces around the lives of couples that have embraced it. This was no ordinary love. The sun that was shining in my life rose and set around Renee.

The weeks went by and we relived our childhoods together. It was a romantic journey. We trekked through parks together. I pointed to places that I had discovered as a boy with Carmella. We rode swings, slid down old sliding boards, and I even showed Renee some old graffiti that Carmella and I had written inside an old oak tree. We laughed. We sang old childhood songs and nursery rhymes. I told Renee about the delicious scents of bakeries that still were located around the park, that had fed Carmella and me hot cinnamon rolls and sugar cookies. We lay on the blanket that we brought with us surrounded in a world of grass and trees. Renee told me stories about slumber parties and strawberry birthday cakes.

We travelled back in time. We reminisced. We laughed at our memories. We cried at our memories. Renee told me that she had been molested as a child. She told me about some older male relative who had touched her in a very uncomfortable way. I saw the pain in her face. I felt the shame brimming in the tears in her eyes. I felt a cold shiver run up my spine. I reached out and held her. She held onto me. We held onto each other. Damn. We were two adults holding and protecting each other from the evil Boogeymen of our past. What a life we have had! What a life we have led! I was sad for the innocence lost to the child that still lived inside of her. And she cried for the young man that went off into the world of purgatory and died. Before I went to prison I believed in fairy tales. But now I don’t. All of the worlds of make believe have been estranged from my life by cold cruel reality. It does come back every now and then.

The months went by and Renee encouraged me to go back to school. At first I laughed. But when I saw how serious she looked about it all, I relented. At first I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what courses to take. When I asked Renee she just said, Do whatever you want to do Baby. Just learn. So I went on to take a few classes at the University of the District of Columbia. History was my major. At 35 years of age, wow! I was finally giving myself a chance. I was finally taking some positive steps in life. I was nervous at first, but I ended up having a wonderful time. I was looking at ancient civilizations with a modern eye. It was fantastic. It was interesting.

If it could be possible to love someone more and more, then that was how I felt about Renee. I worshipped the ground that she walked on. If I could get on the worldwide web, I would display her beauty for the whole world to see. Oh, Renee has been so wonderful to me. We made plans. We discussed our future. We discussed our lives together. I finally got a job. I was relieved. My Probation Officer was relieved. I didn’t make a whole lot of money, but I’d help Mella out with the grocery bills and utility bills when I could. Mella was happy for me. I was making progress in life. I was doing something with myself.

Mella and her children cried when I moved out of their home. We hugged and kissed as if I was going away to some war in a foreign country. I moved in with Renee and her mother. But that move was short-lived. Renee and I got a place of our own. It was a small one-bedroom apartment. It wasn’t much. But we loved it. We enjoyed it. We Christened and blessed every square inch of that apartment. Some weekends we didn’t wear clothes. Shit. Some days we didn’t even eat. We just made love. We were in heaven. We both developed carpet burns on our knees and buttocks. The apartment was only going to be temporary. We were going to buy a home. I had gotten a better job working as a teller at a bank. It was a blessing. God was working in marvelous ways in my life since I met Renee.

A year went by and we were making arrangements to get married. We were getting it all set. Bridesmaids. Some guys that I served time with would be groom’s men. Flower girls. Ring bearer, the whole nine yards. (Looking back at it all, I can honestly say that it was special. We were special. We made the perfect pair. We were the objects of envy. We were the subjects of many discussions.) The troubled man, in and out of prison, the ideal professional woman. People talked about luck. Some talked about fate and destiny. Others said something about tarot cards and stars. We just thought about love. We focused on the belief in our love. We believed in our love. We got married and ended up living in a nice house. It was in a nice and quiet neighborhood not too far from the Shaw Section of Washington, D.C. We put a whole lot of his and hers things inside that house. We did more house warming inside of our home than any married couple ever did in the history of house warming. I believe we made unbelievable love. We enjoyed another life. Renee became pregnant and I was a father for the first time in my life.

I was finally going to become a father. I was overjoyed. I was excited. I felt I could whip the whole world and ask for more. Mella cried for me. She cried for Renee. My nephews were happy. They looked forward to seeing their cousin. And even Buck, their dog, was in on it. Renee’s mother just smiled and was very happy for the both of us. She laughed and said jokingly, Maybe now ya’ll will finally go to sleep in that bed. She didn’t know that we had planned to do some late night frolicking until the baby came. And if my wicked memory serves me correctly, our frolicking may have been the reason that little Immanuel came out. I don’t know.

Yeah, we decided to name my son Immanuel Michael Robinson. Neither of us wanted to name him Junior. We both had bad memories of little boys named Junior in our lives and we didn’t want to place that hex on our first and only son. Renee gained weight during the pregnancy. She went from 100 pounds to 200 pounds. She was miserable. But I loved it. More to mess with. It was like making love to another woman. Legalized cheating. I was scheduled to get my Associate’s Degree in June. I couldn’t wait. I was making something out of my life. I was becoming respectable. I had found another job. I was going to be a counselor at an elementary school. Life was getting better for ne. I was experiencing the fulfillment of so many dreams.

Immanuel Michael Robinson was born in Howard University Hospital on a chilly November morning. The assortment of family and friends that had gathered at the hospital to witness his arrival into the world was enthusiastic. I was the proud Papa.

Immanuel didn’t do a whole lot of crying. He just stared and looked around. Words cannot explain the joy that I felt when I held him in my arms for the first time. I am a father! Renee just lay in the bed. She didn’t move. Tired. A little worn out. Soaking it all in. She was pleased. She became a mother. She brought another life into the world. She had entered the upper echelon of women. She was in a class all by herself that day.

Miss Nat and Carmella were beaming with smiles. Immanuel’s future babysitters didn’t wait to become familiar with him. They goo-gooed and ga-ga-ed him to death. He was bathed in kisses. He was pampered. His diaper was changed even when he hadn’t used the bathroom. But he was like a little king. Born into his role. We took pictures together as a family that I still have in my wallet to this day.

What happened to all of those good memories? Were they real? Did they really happen? What the hell happened to my wife?

The changes in Renee started slowly when she came home from the hospital. She started to complain a whole lot more than she usually did. Nothing was right. Everything was wrong. The house didn’t look right. I didn’t look right. She would cry. She would throw fits and tantrums for no reason at all. What the fuck was going on? I would comply. I would listen. Sympathize. Renee would calm down. Problem solved. Everything is back to normal. We were the loving couple again. We were the proud parents again. It was just a bad episode. Nothing to worry about. We enjoyed the new life we experienced with Immanuel. We learned to recognize and respect his moods. We could tell when he was hungry or when he needed to have his diaper changed. Immanuel wasn’t a difficult baby. He was quiet. He just watched and stared. He blew bubbles and smiled. We were lucky our first time out.

My job at the elementary school was easy, like stealing money. I only had to deal with the 5th and 6th grade classes, getting them prepared for the junior high school level. I was the professional counselor. I wore shirt and tie proudly. Women surrounded me. The older women treated me like a surrogate son. The younger women showed the interest in me that was disquieting. So I would flash my wedding band like a stop sign so as to stop them from any further pursuit. I was happily married. I had been blessed with an infant son. My life was good.

Sometimes Renee’s moods were like night and day. I would come home and not know what woman would be waiting for me behind the door. But I had developed an early warning system with her. Before I opened the door I would listen to what kind of music she had on. If I heard Phyliss Hyman, I knew that everything was okay. But when I heard Nina Simone, I would cringe, and mentally prepare myself for the worst. In those Nina Simone moments anything could happen. But today there wasn’t any music playing when I walked the front door. I thought she might not be home. But when I saw that her car was still in the driveway and heard Immanuel’s voice in the house I knew Renee was home. So I inhaled and walked in. What I found was hilarious. Immanuel was crawling around on the floor while Renee was exercising to some aerobic DVD that was on TV. Whew! I walked up behind her and gave Renee a kiss. She shooed me away like a fly and continued her routine. I picked Immanuel up and kissed is smiling face

My son. My home. My wife. Immanuel and I disappeared into the kitchen. I grabbed another bottle for him and an apple for me. I walked back into the living room and placed Immanuel into his playpen to enjoy his bottle while I sat down on the couch, kicking off my shoes, untying my tie, grabbing the newspaper while I ate the apple and browsed through the news of the day.

Viola! A round of applause, please. Somewhere between her grunts and groans Renee said something to me. I didn’t hear what she was saying, plus, I learned how to be quiet around Renee. Sometimes dialogue with her could be like walking through a minefield. You had to be careful. You never knew what might set her off. So I waited. Renee said something to me again.

Do I still look fat, baby? Renee posed this question nonchalantly in the air like it was harmless. It was bait. Cleverly laid bait sitting out in front of a trap. Any response would lead to more questions that would lead to an argument. Fuck you. I have learned how not to answer questions that will lead me into that direction. In this chess match I will apply my I-PS-PD strategy (Ignore-Play Stupid-Play Dumb). And hopefully everything will be all right. A few seconds went by, and then a minute went by. Oh boy, I’m safe. Checkmate.

I sneak peeks at Renee while she is working out and I must say that she has come down a whole lot from her 200 pounds. She looks about a solid 140-145 pounds. Damn. She looks good. I look over at Immanuel and I see that my little faithful and trusted sidekick