Goodbye My Love and Other Stories

By Marcus A. Stockton and William S. Ray

There are two ways that a person can walk in this life. You can either walk into your blessing or walk into your curse. How can you do that? You can do that by doing things that are natural for you to do. Success at anything is not by chance or by luck.

It is seeing things you have already been doing brought to fruition. Therefore, successful people are not surprised by their success. They actually knew it would happen before it happened. The blessing is the reward for a life of integrity and commitment to achieving goals and setting standards. What is the curse? It is all the negatives that we curse our lives with: the negative friends, the negative conversations, the negative situations. An unsuccessful person who continues to put himself or herself in those situations, in those conversations, and around those people will bring a curse to their lives that they will never be able to shake. I am grateful for the friends and the relationships that I have been blessed with in my life. They have helped me to overcome all the obstacles of life. And that is what any man needs, incarcerated or freepeople who believe in him when no one else in the world does.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543464764

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 © 2017 by Marcus A. Stockton.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-5434-6477-1

                eBook         978-1-5434-6476-4

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.

Scripture quotations marked KJV are from the Holy Bible, King James Version (Authorized Version). First published in 1611. Quoted from the KJV Classic Reference Bible, Copyright © 1983 by The Zondervan Corporation.

Scripture quotations marked TLB are taken from The Living Bible copyright © 1971. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Cover design by David A. Ray

Rev. date: 11/15/2017

Xlibris

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Also by Marcus A. Stockton

Stories from the Pen of a Prisoner • Volume One

Stories from the Pen of a Prisoner • Volume Two

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Chapter 1   Goodbye My Love

Chapter 2   Samson

Chapter 3   Nine Eleven Sixteen

Chapter 4   Virtual Reality

Chapter 5   Frienomies

Chapter 6   Canaan Mountain

Chapter 7   To Bed or Not to Bed

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

For I know the plans that I have for you, says the Lord. They are plans for good and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.

Jeremiah 29:11 (TLB)

So, without a moments hesitation, 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 also like to acknowledge the help, encouragement, and support of Arthur and Minnie Taylor, Arlen and Emily Whaley, Lenel Whaley and Welton Stockton.

I would like to thank Carletha Whaley and her children and grandchildren, Keia Gross and her children and grandchildren, Larry Moon and his family, Rufus Horton and his family, William Ray and his family, Rev. Dr. William Anderson and his family, Rev. Dr. Lewis M. Anthony and his family, Mrs. Albertha Johnson and her family, Deborah Pernell and her family, Stanely Bobbit, Jr., and his whole family, Tyesha Stockton.

And I am eternally grateful for the support of the members of St. Lucille AME Zion Church in Washington, DC.

God Bless you all!

FOREWORD

Goodbye My Love is a collection of stories by Marcus A. Stockton that will rivet your attention from the beginning title story to the surprising conclusion of the final one, To Bed or Not to Bed.

While in prison Mr. Stockton wrote two other Best-Seller books: Stories From the Pen of a Prisoner * Volume One, and Stories From the Pen of a Prisoner * Volume Two. As a prolific writer, his themes have run the gamut from love, lust and murder to the spiritualistic religious fantasy. The imaginatively woven stories in Goodbye My Love reflect this latter theme, as well as a return to the sub-themes of Christianity, and good versus evil.

This will be Marcus’s final work as a prisoner. His time as an incarcerated man will have expired. In the future you can anticipate reading his writings as a free man.

It has been my pleasure to be the typist and editor of this talented young man’s intriguing literary work.

ENJOY!

William Ray

Owner and Operator of

RAY’S TYPING SERVICE

Mitchellville, Maryland

GOODBYE MY LOVE

I waited patiently for the Lord; and he inclined unto me and heard my cry. He brought me up also 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

Never let the forces of confinement break your spirit.

Dr. Benjamin Chauls

Danelle

Goodbye, Michael. I am so sorry. Please forgive me.

I whisper those words silently to myself before I seal the envelope and take that long (painstakingly long) walk down to the mailbox.

I had heard that a little practice would make anything perfect. And so I have been practicing and practicing this whole scene inside of my mind for about six months now. Hell, I have been imagining and dreaming about this moment ever since Michael has been incarcerated. At first I dismissed these bad dreams for what I had thought they were – nightmares of a single, professional woman afraid to stay committed in a relationship with an incarcerated man. Not wanting to be considered one of those women.

But I am one of those women. And even the reality of that thought was not enough to bring me to this place of resolution that I am at right now. All of that would come later. After coming home to an empty house night after night - entering my own home like a stranger and finding it dark and empty.

And now those imaginations, dreams, and nightmares have finally come to fruition. I am fulfilling desires that I have only felt subconsciously. Goodbye, Michael.

Everything around me feels surreal. Like I am observing everything through somebody else’s eyes. Who is this intruder? How dare she enter lives that Michael and I have shared?

Fear and trepidation accompanied me on my journey to the mailbox. They were my traveling companions. Ready to help me say bon voyage to Michael and our relationship one last time. Ready to give me that strength and encouragement that I needed not to back out of what I resigned to do at the last minute.

I felt the grip of fear making a desperate attempt to hold onto me tightly. It didn’t want to relinquish its dominance over my life and me so easily. It didn’t want to acquiesce. I almost had to stifle the urge to beg, to plead.

When I finally made it to the mailbox at the corner of my street, I truly felt like I was the only woman in the whole world. I felt totally alone.

I opened and then dropped the letter into the mailbox, and heard a resounding thud when it hit its bottom.

I didn’t know what that meant, to be able to hear that noise. How empty that mailbox had to have been. How empty and alone – like me.

Goodbye, Michael, I say very quickly before I allow that emptiness to engulf me. I very abruptly pivoted away from the mailbox, leaving behind all of our memories; our first date, our first kiss, our first time making love.

I had to stifle the urge to cry now, because it is all gone away. Just like Michael being handcuffed, indicted, judged, convicted, and sentenced to be far away from me.

But we tried. We really tried to keep it together. And I have the bills to show for it. Collect phone call bill, airplane ticket stubs, money order receipts. Goddamn, we tried!

But all we did was use a band aide to bandage my already bleeding heart. And in the end that did not work.

Goodbye, Michael.

Michael

Damn. It’s all over.

That was all that I could say when I read Danelle’s letter. At first I didn’t want to open it. A sorrowful forbearance seemed to accompany her letter for some strange reason. I guess I knew that it was coming. Too many unexplained silences over the telephone; too many absences between letters, too many visits that ended with too many sad goodbyes.

Damn. It’s all over.

All inside of me I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry for the death of a dream that I had believed included us. I wanted to cry for our aborted chance to show the world what real love (which I believed our love to be) was all about.

But in my prison experience, I have found that the Almighty has the heart of every man, women, and child, right between his two fingers. And He twists and turns them whichever way He wants to. And right now God is really twisting and turning my heart. All within me, I feel nothing else but pain. And I feel it one painful heartbeat at a time.

Damn. It’s all over.

I wonder who will pay the reparations for my soul? Within these five years that I have been sentenced to serve, I have learned the art of losing every single day. Losing my freedom. Losing my family and friends. Losing the love of my life. Losing sleep. Who can take me seriously when I am so far from whom I once was?

There are other men in prison that are serving longer and harsher sentences than I am serving. But that fact does not make any of this hurt any less. We had plans. We were going to defy the odds. We were going to defy whatever gods or goddesses were up beyond the skies.

Maybe that was why we lost? We had attempted to try something that should not be attempted, and lost our shot to believe in something that we had no right to believe in.

I had to put Danelle’s letter down. Her words were burning flames in my mind. She didn’t curse or humiliate me, or anything. It was just that all of her most troublesome and disturbing thoughts seemed to jump up off of the paper and into my head.

God! She was right. I had to admit that. How could I console her when she needed to be consoled? How could I hold her when she needed to be held? How could I love her when she needed to be loved?

Damn. It’s all over.

Yeah, I had to put her letter down. It was too painful of an experience to read and to re-read. What can I do now? Call her? No. What’s done is done. Won’t do any kind of good trying to attempt some kind of phone call pleading for mercy.

Nah, I decided to sit by my window and watch the last embers of the day fade away. I said a little prayer for Danelle, for me, for us. We needed it badly. Prayer is the soul’s desire unuttered or expressed; a motion of fire hidden deep within the breast. Prayer is the motion of a sigh, the shedding of a tear, the upward glancing of an eye, when none but God is near.

And wherever God is, I truly hope and pray that He hears me, because I do not know what tomorrow may bring. But whatever it is, I just hope and pray that it is the best thing for either of us.

Damn. It’s all over.

Now, where do I begin again?

Danelle

I really didn’t feel like going to work the next day. I felt nauseated. Mentally, spiritually, and physically fatigued. I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t believe that I possessed the energy to display the appearance of normality and having everything in my life together; when it was the total opposite. Everything in my life felt anything but normal or together.

I didn’t feel like playing the game anymore. Walking into that classroom with a fake-ass smile on my face. Talking to my little children with a cheerful voice when I felt anything but cheerful. I would be a fraud. And my kindergarteners would see through that façade. They were seasoned vets at detecting that game. Probably seeing enough of it at home with their own parents, like hearing heated arguments at night while they feigned sleep with their covers over their heads; then waking up the next morning to smiling faces and cheerful voices, when they knew that their parents felt anything but happy and cheerful. Yeah, my little babies would know what bullshit smelled like when they smelled it. And if I went into that classroom trying to play that role, I would stink to high heaven. No. I do not want to be like one that took away what little bit of naivety that they still had left.

But oh, Miss Jones is in so much pain today, Babies. My heart is broken. So please behave yourselves. Momma Jones is hurting.

I wasn’t in the mood for any shit today from anybody, so I had to put on my No-bullshit-for-today look. I tied my hair into a fierce ponytail, followed by a pleated skirt, blouse, and my do-not-disturb-the-teacher glasses. My children would get my drift. But these strangers on the street might not. That was okay, too. I carried a brand new bottle of mace that was locked and loaded. Creepers, beware!

Most days when I hop on the Metro Rail and ride to work, I take a moment to allow myself a few moments to enjoy and feel the beauty of the Nation’s Capital before I lock myself away in a classroom for nine hours. Most people believe teachers go home at 3 o’clock, but we don’t. Sometimes I do not leave he school building until around four, five, or six o’clock, worn out and tired.

But that’s okay. I’m living the dream. Literally. Being a teacher is all that I ever wanted to do as a child. This is all that I ever dreamed about growing up in Largo, Maryland. Considered by many as one of the so-called Largo High School Honeys, I could have allowed myself to fall victim to the many obstacles other girls my age fell victim to in that section of suburban life in Prince George’s County. Statistics say I was supposed to be lost, alone, and pregnant. And if those stats were true, I would have found myself blindly following behind some mixed-up and confused boy who did not know who or what he was, or where he was headed in life, and would never be any kind of help to me or my baby.

Hell no! My mind, body, and spirit announced very emphatically in everything I did with my life that I would not fall into that death trap so many other girls fell into. And I had some very good help, a whole lot of positive examples of what womanhood meant to the world. My grandmother, mother, and auntie would not allow otherwise. And neither would I.

Living my life with a purpose, I feel that I was divinely willed through high school and through Clark University in Atlanta, Georgia. There were traps and pitfalls to fall into in Atlanta. But I dodged those fatal bullets with speed and finesse. If not for the grace of God, I would have fallen victum to an unwanted pregnancy, HIV, AIDS, or God knows what else.

Not me! My body is God’s temple. And nobody was going to get any part of me until we said our vows before God and we walked down the aisle together, side-by-side and hand-in-hand.

That is what I believed with my whole heart until I met Michael Johnson. Damn. He was just too sexy and intelligent to deny. Sweet talking his smooth chocolate ass right into my life and throwing a monkey wrench right into my plans, fucking everything up. Double damn. Got me thinking about his sexy ass again. Should have never gone over to Claude’s house three years ago. I was doing fine, my future right in front of me. Twenty-five years old. A very good kindergarten teacher, if I must say so myself. No distractions to distract me from anything whatsoever.

And then came Michael. For a full year Michael Ardre Johnson had convinced me that he could walk on air and turn water to wine. I fell hopelessly and happily in love. We were the perfect matches. Michael fulfilled me in ways I never thought any man could ever have fulfilled in my whole entire life.

I was satisfied. I had found love. I believed it, dreamed it, and knew it was true. The icing on the cake came when we finally made love; it was all that I ever thought, dreamed, or imagined it would be. Wedding bells were ringing for us sometime in the near future. We would slice our wedding cake together.

I had been a virgin; a twenty-five year old virgin, an aberration in a world where promiscuity is prevalent amongst women and men. I had held onto my chastity belt real tight until Michael’s smooth words made me let it go and drop it to my knees. Michael didn’t talk me into anything; I was willing to give it to him freely.

Triple damn. I’m crying again. Damn. I don’t need to be going through this shit right now. I am on my way to work. I don’t want to be late dealing with this shit.

Damn again. This part is the other side of my relationship with Michael that I do not like, the dark and sad side. That is the side I do not like to talk or think about, the side that is full of lies and deception.

My sweet smooth talking Michael was like an onion to me. After his arrest, I began peeling back layers and layers of his life and putting it into the air. And the more and more I peeled back of him, the more and more I cried.

Drug dealing. Possessing firearms. Being involved in an illicit lifestyle. It felt like I had fallen in love with another person. I was confused and perplexed. Who is this stranger I shared my bed with? Who is this anonymous man I had given my body to?

My sweet and gentle man could not be the same man who sold drugs and toted guns in the street. It had to be somebody else. It was him, though, all of it was; every sad and miserable part. Disappointment, outrage, and anger swept through me. We would argue. We fussed. Every single day we went through a myriad of new feelings and emotions that I never thought we would encounter.

But in the end, I could not just desert him. I wouldn’t leave him. I held firmly onto what we had in the face of all opposition to do otherwise.

So I remained the faithful and loyal girlfriend. My friends and family supported me and helped me, even though they would heckle and harass me from time to time. The kindergarten teacher/ride or die chick. And I would laugh right along with them when they made a joke about me and Michael’s relationship. But maybe I was a Gangster Boo in the flesh. In my next parent-teacher meeting, I should put on a bandana, and wear something all black, like Aliyah.

After a while the whole experience became too tiring. The weight of it all began to wear and beat me down. I didn’t want to desert Michael. He was too good a man to do that to. But I just got tired of deserting myself. I had needs, too. I had desires and needs that needed to be addressed. So, before I self-destructed and did something foolish, I just let go. I was tired of carrying around dead weight.

Please forgive me, Michael! You are not dead weight. You are my man, my soul mate, and I love you very much. But I’ve also got to love me, too. And I cannot love me and love you at the same time. All of this sounds oxymoronic and confusing, but that is how I feel right now, oxymoronic and confused.

I’ve got to catch my breath. Breathe in. Breathe out. Relax. Release. I’m so sorry, Michael.

When I walked into my classroom, I was embraced by the little voices of my kindergarteners as they joyfully shouted when I walked through the door, Good morning, Ms. Jones! I almost cried, but I just said, Thank you, babies. I stifled the urge to cry. I really needed to hear the joy and happiness in those little hopeful voices. It was truly a blessing to feel loved when I didn’t feel lovable.

Michael

Sleep didn’t come quickly to me last night. I tossed and turned all night long. By the time sleep did finally take over it was too late because the guard was unlocking my cell door. That was the signal to start another whole new day.

Damn. Either last night went too fast or the morning couldn’t wait to get started. I didn’t know which one, but I didn’t like it one bit. Fuck it, though. Time to get up and face the madness.

People outside of prison think that all of the horrors of prison occur as soon as the cell doors open. However, it is not always like that, it’s quite the opposite. The locked cell door is a grace period, the calm before the storm. But it could be hell inside of that CX9 cell, too. Nobody walks out of their cell stepping out into a cauldron of chaos and confusion with Welcome to the jungle by Guns N Roses blaring in the background.

Naw, all violence in prison is left over from whatever argument or disagreement occurred the day or night before. Nothing just happens without rhyme or reason. The so-called prison authorities always fail to recognize that fact. But it all comes down to jurisdiction, where the interpretation of laws of the land between guard and convict lay. It has always been two kinds of laws that control the institution; the laws of the prisoners and the laws of the prison staff.

I walked out of my housing unit and went directly into the recreation yard. I either spoke or nodded my head in acknowledgment of the few prisoners I had known. But my mind was somewhere else. It was miles away, in Washington, DC, absorbed in the memories of a woman who could no longer love me.

Damn. I’ve just got to get my shit together. Danelle had dropped and detonated a bomb in my life that shook the very foundations of my soul and brought my whole world to rubble. But I had to rebuild a new life for me from beneath the ruins she had left behind. I had to keep pushing along for my own sake.

Where is the Hammer? I needed to see the Hammer right now. Dorsey Francis a.k.a. the Hammer was a workout machine. The Hammer didn’t know pain. He dished it out. I am one of the very few men that ate at his table. The Hammer didn’t tolerate any half-stepping at all. Working out with him required absolute dedication and total concentration; one hundred present everything or nothing at all. Don’t even waste his time or yours.

The Hammer acknowledged me with a nod of his head when I walked in his direction. The Hammer smiled knowingly at me, as if he could gauge what kind of mood I was in. His body seemed to say, Okay, tough guy, let’s get ready to rumble! Get ready for pain!" A burpee is a military push up where you do a push up, jump up quickly, stand, and jump back down to perform a push up again. The Hammer and I would not do hundreds of those things, but thousands. We would start our routine at 7:30 and workout until 10:30. Three hours, straight, hard and long.

Whenever something is on my mind, troubling me, perplexing me, I put my body to work to get the problem out of my mind. And it helps to have another man as driven as I to workout with. Steel sharpens steel.

My mind was still absorbed with thoughts about Danelle. She still inhabited my mind. But I didn’t mind; I let her stay there, too. I needed her. She would add the needed fuel to my adrenaline, give me a little extra push to make it through the Hammer’s routine. In my mind I saw Danelle, and I clung to her image. I imagined it with an uncanny acuteness. I heard her talking to me, and I saw her smile. In love all over again, my mind screamed, Don’t give up on me, baby, I am coming home!

Ten years is not a long time, but to some people it seems to be.

Dissatisfaction with life does not come from the absence of things, but in the absence of direction in life. And I had learned from my first night in a prison cell, to realize that a few years later it would take mental courage to make it out of prison alive and well. Everything inside of the prison experience is used to tear you down. Some days it’ll seem like two steps forward and three steps backward. But a man has to keep his eyes on the prize. He has to be shown something to look forward to. Didn’t Danelle know that? Didn’t she know that a man locked up in prison needed to be reminded that life still waited for him, somebody waited for his return home?

How many times in the past few years have I been deceived by my dreams? I found myself dreaming about freedom, returning home to be with Danelle, to be awakened by some noise taking my dreams of freedom away from me.

Where is that love and commitment the Bible speaks about toward prisoners, to be with those in prison, as if you were there with them? That is the kind of hope that a man in prison needs and longs for.

There are some men in prison who found that no one waited for them. The person whose memory alone had given them the courage to survive in prison did not exist anymore. When the day of their dreams finally came, they would finally be released and find it so different from all that they had hoped for.

Last night, after reading my letter from Danelle, I dreamed that I had been released from prison, boarded a Greyhound bus and traveled out to Danelle’s house, seeing it as I had seen it for years in my mind, ringing her doorbell just as I longed to do thousands of times, only to find that the person who should be opening Danelle’s door was not there for me, and would never again be there for me.

Danelle

Work is my escape. I enter here to leave behind the world I selfishly created for myself. I’m chasing dreams. I’m pursuing ambitions. In my classroom full of kindergarteners I see a new zest and hope for life. And that zest and hope is contagious. It has contaminated me with all of its youthful enthusiasm.

I guess that learning the ABCs and 123s of life can do that to you. My little ladies and gentlemen are always inspiring within me the belief in bright todays and even brighter tomorrows. It is almost like starting life all over again. When today was over, I felt re-energized and refreshed.

Now it is time for me to go home, the one place from which I had just escaped eight hours ago; my own self-built prison. There was nothing there for me, no warm body except my own, no smiling face besides my own face. To hell with all of that! I am going to enjoy a nice little long ride home this evening. I’m going to see the sights, do a little window-shopping, and visit the historical section of DC.? Yeah, that sounds like the ticket.

Fall winds have brought a chill into my life that had not been there before. Everything felt colder. My lonely day felt lonelier. I found myself resisting the urge to cry. But with every step I took I could feel the tears building up in my eyes. Maybe I should just go home? End this little charade of being okay when I am hurting inside.

I rode the Metro Rail from my school in the Van Ness section of DC. I went down to the Smithsonian and walked down the National Mall letting the tears fall helplessly from my eyes. Unashamedly I let the tears flow as I walked, creating a few startled stares as I walked. But I didn’t care, let them fall. My pain had become too powerful for me to just keep grinning and bearing it. Let them think that I was some crazy Black woman crying in the street. I did not care. Everything no longer mattered. I no longer cared. My heart was broken.

Michael

Mail Call! Officer Pondexter announced to me and my fellow housing unit residents after the 4 o’clock count. I had dreaded this moment. What it would feel like? Because I knew it was coming. And I had dreaded it like some parolee going up for parole. No mail was coming to me today. Okay, that might be sounding a little too dramatic, a little too ungrateful, because I do receive mail from other people besides Danelle. My mother, my cousin Chardé, other relatives and friends all write me. But all of those letters would not be coming from Danelle. She’s not in the picture anymore.

I cannot sit around wallowing in the mire of pity all day long, and no amount of regret can change the outcome of whatever had come to pass between us.

Get out of there, Mike. Rodney Moore spoke quietly into my right eardrum as he snuck up behind me and startled me out of my daze. It was a surprise to me, considering how big Rodney Moore is, that he could sneak up on me without me knowing he was there until it was too late. But I guess that was the result of the life he had lived before he came to prison, being a part of a group of street hustlers the newspapers had labeled, Murder Inc.

It is almost eerie to see a man who prosecutors described as the driving intellect behind Murder Inc., being such a calm and cool individual. Most people in prison gravitate toward the people who were viewed as tough, strong, and gangster, while I preferred to meet a man and be happy just to call him my friend. And with Rodney Moore, I could do that. There was nothing covert or hidden about our dealings. Everything was on the up and up. No ulterior motives.

What’s up, Rodney? I respond to his surprise with a greeting and smile. I didn’t see you.

Yeah, I know, Rodney replied. You were out there in no man’s land again, thinking about that girl who broke your heart.

"Nah! I wasn’t thinking about her. That shit is all over. She went her way and