Shades of Fear

by D. L. Scott

  In an instant a foot was in Lester’s back sending him sprawling to the floor. Lester was in shock, this couldn’t be happening. He instinctively clawed at the floor trying to distance and right himself against his attacker. Before he could move, before he could think, before he could make a plea for help, before he could scream, his attacker was on top of him. The chill that ran over him, the fear that rushed through his veins was numbing. Lester went to scream, but only a gurgle came.

  A chainsaw blade between two pieces of broomstick made quick work of the deed. It was wrapped around Lester’s neck with skilled, strong hands. And in just one pull, Lester’s throat had been cut all the way to the spine. That’s why Lester had found it so hard to scream, the same reason he couldn’t catch his next breath. A gargle and gasp of air through a roughly opened windpipe was all that whispered. Blood poured on the ground as though it was poured from a foot tub. With one more pull and a push of the foot; the only thing connecting Lester’s head to the rest of him was a small patch of skin.

  Lester lay on the ground with eyes gaped wide in horror. It wasn’t long before another found his body sent by the boss man to see what was keeping him so long. The boss had readied his whip to teach Lester a lesson about taking too long. The whip would have to wait, for Lester had gone to whatever was waiting on the other side.

  # # #

  Another few months had passed since Lester met his fate in the tractor barn. An uneasy rest had come to the farm as inmates went about their daily duties. Delta State Prison, a huge prison farm where there were always lots to keep inmates busy and from idle thoughts of trouble and escape. Hundreds of acres of cotton, corn, beans, hay, heat, mosquitoes, snakes, and swamps were those things.

  Inmate Mark Jacobs was the ultimate example of prison reform gone wrong. He had been in Delta State Prison several times before. His first crime was stealing a tractor from the very farm he was now sentenced to for the next fifteen years; this time it was for robbery of a jewelry store in Cleveland. The jury full of fire and brimstone had suggested Mark get the electric chair for a life full of unlawful deeds; and a life that would continue to know only crime. The judge however, bowing to the changing climate of racial concerns throughout the south, decided life without parole would make the Judge seem more feeling toward the plight of the colored folk that came before him. The election was close and he would need their votes soon and he didn’t want to malign any voters.

  Mark went about his duties after being placed in the mechanic shop. He was handy with small and large engine repairs. His family couldn’t understand how someone so good at repairing things couldn’t stay away from the evil side of life. People from all over the countryside were bringing cars, lawn mowers, and every other kind of equipment to him for repair. Most of the time he wouldn’t charge them saying they were friends, neighbors, or kin that couldn’t afford to pay. Then he would go steal for food and beer money.

  Being from Ruleville, he had many kin people in the area, a few in the same camp he was now being sent to. So Mark Jacobs felt right at home. That is for a few weeks before the new list came out, the Nail had came back to the population and the bets were being taken on who would be next. Mark had heard his name was on the list. He’d almost soiled his pants when he got the news. No one wanted to be on the list; everyone knew that when the Nail came to the population, someone always “Got Hammered.”

  After a long day in the mechanic shop, Mark made his way back to Camp 3 to hose off and wait for the dinner bell. Today he would enjoy the bacon, field peas, and cornbread on the menu; it was always on the menu. Mark walked into Camp, no one seemed to be around. That made Mark nervous. You didn’t want to be alone in Camp 3 if you owed another inmate money, favors, and/or especially if your name was on the list.

  Mark reached for the chain that would turn on the light when a hand came from behind and held a knife to his throat. As Mark was being dragged back he noticed the knife wasn’t a prison shard but a long butcher knife like they used back home to skin deer or scrape hogs. Mark tried to struggle against his attackers’ hold grabbing at bunks, bed sheets, anything to slow his attacker from dragging him to the back of the barracks but the man was too strong.

  Mark felt like a rag doll in the man’s grip. The man was so strong that Mark felt the air being forced from his lungs causing him to feel faint. When they came to a stop they were at the back of the Camp house in the far corner. Mark was spun around and came face to face with the man known as “The Nail”. Mark felt himself lose his balance and become weak in the knees, but the strength of The Nail kept him on his toes. Then Mark’s eyes flew wide as he felt the knife enter his side between his ribs. It was with such force his ribs popped from the skin; breaking from the blade as it was brought around into and through the ribs on the other side.

  Mark was dead almost instantly, but The Nail kept plunging the knife into his chest and stomach. At one point having so much of his torso cut away, Mark’s entrails fell out onto the floor. Mark’s body was let go and plunged to the floor with a loud thud. The Nail’s ravenous lust for blood not being sated went about kicking Mark’s lifeless body until he was tired and breathing hard from the assault. Mark had been “Hammered.”

  The Nail, not having a reason to fear being caught, sat down and looked at the lifeless body before him. Then a look came over The Nail’s face as though he was finally satisfied with his work. He stood, wiped his hands clean on the bed sheet and walked out.

  # # #

  Captain, that’s the name everyone called Warden Carl Burgess. Captain Carl was quick to anger. The Captain was known for his abilities with a long leather strap he used to get the attention of an inmate. He could whip an inmate within an inch of his life and never lose the ash off the end of his cigar.

  He had been the Warden for fifteen years, not a small feat for the political hotbed his position became every election year. Captain was the name the inmates had given him because of the enormous collection of Civil War memorabilia he had in his office. It seemed though you had traveled back in time when you entered his office. Swords adorned the walls. Cross and Bars flew on the desk, the wall, even a rug on the floor. Oil burning lamps were everywhere, which he used to light his cigars. He even had pictures of Klansman on the wall; and a special favorite of the colored inmates was the small statue of a Klansman on horseback carrying a flaming cross.

  Captain Carl had served a long and distinguished career in the Army Air Corp before retiring and getting a job with the Sheriff’s department in Clarksdale. There was a rumor that the FBI had investigated him for his part in running the local Klan Chapter. They never were able to prove anything. In those days and in those parts of the country the Klan was still favored by many. No one wanted to speak ill of them because the Klan was strong and could do harm to a person or their family in many ways, not just killing them. Many store and business owners were members and if you wanted a loaf of bread, you knew to keep your mouth shut. Besides, they wore sheets to protect their identity. Who could say for certain who was under what sheet?

  The Governor had been on his back a lot lately, with all of the deaths that had taken place of late. Accidents and suicide didn’t feel right to the Governor. However the Governor had to put on a show for the media and the concerned families of the prisoners. He actually had little care for the matter. Captain had grown tired of talk about the Lottery. The last inmate that brought it up was put in solitary for a month. Not a small feat in that day and time for an inmate. It was in his words, “a folk tale and a lame excuse for violence in his prison.” It was also a way that a lot of prisoners made money, off the bets made on who would be next.

  He had worried the news of the Lottery would get out and cause an investigation. Local investigators worried him little, but if they brought in Federal folks; well that was a cause for concern, because they would find something. They always did. For now Captain was going to put it all behind him, because there was a light skinned colored girl waiting for him in Drew an
d he didn’t want to be late getting home for dinner after his visit.

  # # #

  Prison life was hard -- especially in southern prisons. The idea of prison rights hadn’t made it past Illinois. As a matter of fact even in Illinois they weren’t adhered to. There were no libraries. Even if there were, most inmates couldn’t read. There were no weight rooms. They got plenty of exercise working in the fields, working livestock, or repairing fences, cars, trucks, tractors, and hundreds of other task in and around the prison.

  For relaxation, the inmates played cards, played baseball, or sat and played the blues. Captain Carl loved the blues. So he always made sure there were fiddles, guitars, and harps around for the inmates to make use of. Captain would come out to the camps most evenings and listened as they played. Captain liked to hear Ol’ Thomas play the harp. Ol’ Thomas really had a talent for it. He could make the harp seem to cry as the blues poured from his harp and floated across the bean field.

  Thomas Edison Johnston was from Indianola, a city known for its roots in the delta blues. Ol’ Thomas came to prison in 1938 after sending a white man to meet his maker with the business end of an ax. Not that Thomas wanted to be so ruthless, but guns were expensive and rare among southern blacks. When he went to trial, it mattered little that the white man was on top of his 13-year-old daughter. All that mattered was that a black had killed a white and something had to be done.

  Ol’ Thomas had reached trustee level several years ago, being one of the most trusted prisoners on the grounds at Delta State Prison. His wife, Ida Mae, had passed two years ago. She was the only one to come and visit every Sunday afternoon when she was living. All the other members of his family had passed on. He had one son, called Tumes that had been killed three years earlier in a bar fight. That left only one remaining daughter, until today. The notice had come to the Warden that Ol’ Thomas’ daughter had been killed as she was heading home from work. Her car had stalled and the train had been unable to stop in time. That left Ol’ Thomas alone in the world. A cold and very hard world.

  Captain Carl having a like for Ol’ Thomas wanted to give Thomas the message himself. He called Ol’ Thomas into the Chapel where the New Baptist preacher from Greenwood would come to preach every Sunday. Ol’ Thomas knew something was wrong because it wasn’t the Captain’s way to call you in to the chapel like that. At word of the news you could hear his cry all over the grounds. Ol’ Thomas, what was left of him, had just died. And the moan was so full of sorrow it chilled everyone within hearing distance. It took hours before the Warden and the preacher could console Ol’ Thomas. Then a look of contentment came over Ol’ Thomas face. He had come to the conclusion of what he had to do.

  Ol’ Thomas made his way to the metal shop where for years he had been keeping the blades sharp on the bush hogs and mowers. Welding tractor parts and such. Ol’ Thomas was thinking about the good days when his children were small and his wife was alive; where he had sharecropped 40 acres with his neighbor down the road from where he was born and raised and lived with his family as he sharpened the mower blade.

  When the blade was good and sharp he walked up to his foreman, Mr. Willis, who had always been kind to Ol’ Thomas and said, “I just want to thank you Boss for being good to me. I’d never made it here without you helping me with this burden I’ve had to carry here. I hope to see you on the other side”. Mr. Willis’ eyes went wide as the blade crossed Ol’ Thomas throat cutting it deep and wide. Blood squirted all the way to the ceiling and seemed to pour out more than one person should be able to hold. Mr. Willis tried to hold the wound closed and screamed for help, but it was to late. Ol’ Thomas had passed on, eyes open and mouth agape.

  Hearing the scream many of the inmates ran to see what was going on. Many had thought the Nail had acted once again. Seeing Ol’ Thomas like that shook many of the inmates. They could see themselves ending the same way. Prison life was a hard life. In the beginning family and friends would come to visit every Sunday. Letters would come every once and a while. Eventually, they all stopped and you were left alone until you were released or died. There were a lot of folks in with you, but you were always on your own.

  They all remembered the Lottery wasn’t the only way a man could die in Delta State Prison.

  About the Author

  Stance Bingham grew up in the MS delta the son of a MS Highway Patrol Trooper. He has two sons, one daughter and two granddaughters. He has been in radio since the age of 14 and continues to be in radio on the MS Gulf Coast. He is an avid outdoorsman and loves being on the gulf fishing.

  George

  By D.K. Cassidy

  The only courage that matters is the kind that gets you from one moment to the next.

  – Mignon McLaughlin, American journalist and writer (1913-1983)

  George always felt safe in his closet, the only place in the small house that belonged to him. He slept, read, brooded, ate, and sometimes dreamt there. This four by six-foot world decorated with the things he had accumulated, was out of bounds for all including his cat. The previous occupant built a wall of shelves intended to hold whatever could not be hung.

  Another shelf circled three of the walls. His father didn’t enter the closet, not out of respect, but neglect. As long as George remained out of his sight, he didn’t bother with him. He might walk into George’s bedroom looking for the cat, but he never opened the closet door.

  Occasionally he heard his father walk by but not to seek George out, the bathroom stood next to his sanctuary. George blocked out the disturbing sounds of elimination and drunken stumbling by listening to a little clock radio he’d found in someone else’s garbage can and humming along to the music.

  # # #

  Five and a half year old George stood and looked at a book he’d stolen from the library. Learning to read, still a few months away, wasn’t a reason to stop taking books. It felt more exciting to take what he wanted, then return the book whenever he got around to it, if ever.

  The only books to make it back to the library were the ones he tired of. He’d been doing this since the age of five, the first time accidentally.

  He ran into the library to avoid the rain on his walk home from kindergarten. A colorful book with pictures of dragons on the cover lay on a table near the door. George picked it up and decided he liked the pictures and wanted to bring the book home.

  He had no idea about the system in place to check out books, so he took it. Now he had a use for the nearly empty backpack he transported to and from school. Later that month, his teacher talked about going on a field trip to the library and getting the class signed up for cards.

  George had developed a way of blending in and not being noticed. A book with a boy riding a camel quietly slipped into the red backpack at his feet. Instead of feeling guilty he’d stolen the book, George felt a chill run up his spine, a good chill, something close to happiness. His beleaguered teacher never noticed he stayed away from the desk issuing cards.

  # # #

  Each year George became interested in a new thing to collect. He discovered plastic army men when he was six years old in the drugstore while his mother picked up her depression medication.

  While she spoke to the pharmacist, he wandered in a state of boredom down the aisles. On aisle three he saw a display of cheap plastic toys designed to entice last minute shoppers, guilty divorced dads, and unsupervised children.

  Located halfway up on the shelf a round plastic container with the words, “Paratroopers, complete with parachutes”. George was an excellent reader for his age, due more to his stolen books than any skill of his teachers, recognized the word parachute. He wasn’t certain about the meaning of paratroopers but decided it had to be worth a look.

  The container sat just out of his reach, so he climbed onto the first shelf and grabbed the toy. When he looked inside, he discovered his newest passion, army men. He knew this container would be too large to take, so he needled his mother until she relented; she didn’t want George to start
screaming in the drugstore.

  He supplemented his collection with stray army men found on playgrounds, in classmate’s backpacks, and smaller packages from local stores that were easier to steal. His armies lined the shelves of his closet and formed groups on top of his books ready for action.

  # # #

  George’s mother, a thin dry woman, doled out her version of love via food. Never hugging George or her late husband. She rarely spoke. Instead choosing to watch television. George would watch TV with her, finishing all of his food. If he disturbed her, he could expect a slap or worse. She’d already dispensed with his father after one of their arguments. He didn’t want to disappear and did whatever it took to please her.

  # # #

  Eight-year-old George enjoyed counting the battle cards he had taken as part of his current obsession. He never played the game, but loved to read the powers, abilities and fight tactics of the illustrated creatures on the decks. Last year’s collection of dump trucks taught him the important lesson of conservation of space. Being practical, he realized collecting smaller items left room for a more diverse collection of stuff to hide and display in his world.

  Almost every surface of the shelves stood piled high with books, army men, and trucks. He collected thousands of these cards, using up a few inches of space on top of a stack of books. He carefully maintained a clear space for him to lie down and enjoy his collections.

  # # #

  At ten years old, a pillow, some snacks, and his radio turned on, were all he needed to maintain his sense of security. He stockpiled batteries he’d taken on his last trip to the drugstore to ensure his radio never stopped playing. The one and only time he could not play his radio taught him to stay vigilant about his power sources.