When I was at the Mississippi State Penitentiary at Parchman, I was housed for quite some time with the guys on death row. I don't think there was anyone I was closer to on the row than Jan Michael Brawner, Jr., whom we knew as JB. He called me his Little Bro and I called him my Big Bro. And as I'm writing this, I've heard them announce on the radio that he was pronounced dead. My Big Bro was executed by the State of Mississippi's murder machine.

What I'd like to know is...just what was accomplished by murdering JB? Was justice served? Does anyone feel a sense of closure or satisfaction now that he's dead? And if so, what kind of psychological mindset does a person have to possess to feel satisfied at the death of another person? But I'm not writing to debate these things here. I'm here to remember JB.

Through the years, I have refrained from asking people about the crimes they were sentenced for. I figure that they have already been judged for whatever it is and I don't have any need to know about it. So, instead of regurgitating what the media has forcefed you, let me tell you about the JB that I knew. Let me tell you about my Big Bro.

When I first met JB in C-building of MSP's Unit 32, he had already known of me through mutual friends. I don't associate with many people unless I've been around them for awhile, but I made an exception with JB because others were vouching for him. We shared common interests like reading, especially the science fiction and fantasy genres. The Sword of Truth series by Terry Goodkind was his favorite, whereas the Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan is mine. This brought about an interesting discussion because I said that Goodkind plagiarized Jordan's ideas. JB was determined to find out the truth...and judging by copyrights and dates, I was right. That was one of the many things about JB that I respected- if he was wrong, he could admit it.

If JB borrowed something from someone, even if it was just a pack of salt, he was sure to repay it. If he could help someone, he would. JB cared and was a loyal friend, a loving son and brother, and it bothered him he couldn't do much for his mom, brother, sister. I've seen him humble himself, apologize to people and ask them to forgive him.

How many people who hate JB are professing Christians? What an ironic thing- the very ones reveling in his death are those who pay lip service to the doctrine of love. JB didn't fear death; he was at peace and knows who his Savior is. JB is a true Christian, I'm glad to have been able to encourage him in his faith, and I'm proud to call him my Big Bro. Matthew 25: 31-46 is an apt passage. Are you a sheep or goat?

JB's last words to me were a prayer for me and the ones I love... The world is worse-off for losing JB and I'll miss my Big Bro, but I look forward to seeing him again one day.

-In memory of Jan Michael Brawner, Jr. June 10, 1978 - June 12, 2012

For years I've been told by many people, "Steven, you need to write a book." So I'm guessing that there are those who enjoy reading what I write, or just want to keep me distracted from realizing my plans of world domination. I hope that it's the former, otherwise they might be disappointed. I can multitask. The good news is that I've been at work on what will hopefully end up as a completed novel one day in the foreseeable future. 

I am the kind of person who needs to know as much about something as I possibly can before I attempt it. Since I never attended creative writing classes, don't have a MFA and didn't even pass the 9th grade in high school, I've been teaching myself what I need to know to tell stories well, in written form. You, my readers, will be the final judges of that. 

One of the tools I have to aid me in the learning process is "The Write-Brain Workbook" by Bonnie Neubauer. I like how it's about practice. All you need is a pen and ten minutes a day- you can write right in the book if you want. 366 exercises each of which gives you a starting phrase, an ending sentence, a series of challenging words to incorporate, a fill-in-the-blanks character to create and more. It's about keeping the writing as it should be: fun. 

Starting with the first exercise, I'm going to work each of them and share the results with you here on my personal blog. No editing. No refinement. Just me having fun. Day 1 gives you twelve words, out of which you choose three to use in the story. I chose: exercise, flatulence, lamb. The story is to begin with: Sometimes I feel just like a gerbil, running around and around on his wheel! Here we go... 

Sometimes I feel just like a gerbil, running around and around on his wheel! Going nowhere, fast. Listen up, 'cause I've something I want to get off my chest. Know why you don't hear about demonic possession anymore? I'm one of the reasons why. That and the fact these modern day quacks stick the possessed into institutions, diagnose them as mentally ill and treat them with drugs. If I were to tell them I'm an exorcist and could help with their "patients", they'd have me right in there doing the Thorazine-shuffle with the rest of the crazies faster than you can say psychopathologicaldisassociaton. And yes, I know I've got to be crazy to stay in a line of work where projectile vomit and deadly flatulence are serious occupational hazards, and aren't due to the breakroom food from the vending machines. Gives a whole new meaning to "silent but deadly." These demons are getting more and more savvy, too. The cases of sociopathy have increased exponentially within our society and you don't wonder why? It ain't the water, people. The demon-possessed are amongst us, and I'd like to think they're keeping a low profile to prevent me from catching up with them. That's not the whole story though. Something big is brewing. Something in bold letters, written in something that resembles red paint, dripping down a piece of cardboard held by someone you consider crazy, and it reads something like "THE END IS NIGH!" So no, I don't really want to be in this line of work but I don't see people lining up to volunteer for the Lamb of God's army. Try to write me off as just another nutcase. But part of you knows what I'm saying is the truth. I've disrupted your little world of self-imposed ignorance, and that makes you mad. The way you look at things will never be the same. What you do now is entirely up to you. And by the way. . . good luck with the elections. You're gonna need it.  

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I remember the first time I was told I would be able to receive a package, I was still in Unit 32 and had just signed on the "High Risk Incentive Program." Years of experience in dealing with prison administrators has taught me to take what they say, not with a grain of salt, but with an entire bag of the stuff. Which is probably what they say about us prisoners, too. But they told us we'd be allowed to receive a package; that we were already approved. Weeks later after our families attempted to order a package for us, we found out we had not been approved. 

That was the first time. The second time went more smoothly, thankfully. And in case you are ordering for your loved one, below you'll find info that will hopefully make it easier. If they can order from the regular commissary menu, then there are items on the package menu that you might want to avoid because they are also on the regular menu. 

If you have and questions or want to share your experiences with us, feel free to leave comments here on the post. We hope this info is of aid to you. For more info on how to order a package for your loved one, click here. 

Over the years, I've met some rather...interesting characters. And because I'm such a caring and sharing soul, I'm going to regale you with tales of them. No, no, don't thank me. It's quite alright. This is for your reading enjoyment.

During my time at Unit 32, I was housed around the guys on death row quite frequently. That's where I met Bill. If you were to see Bill, your first impression would be of a guy who looked like he'd been a part of the Hell's Angels. About 5'11", 320 lbs., dark brown hair cut in a mohawk, and a full beard. Undermining this first impression is the one-piece button-up jumpsuit that he's wearing. I got the feeling he had received it when he first came to the row, that it was about 5 times too large and he kinda grew into it, like a goldfish into its bowl. The jumpsuit was once red, but now it just looks pink. And then Bill opens his mouth and says something like "Hi!" sounding for all the world like Ned Flanders from The Simpsons.

I used to get moved on a weekly basis, and I remember the first time I had to spend a week across from Bill. A memorable week it was. The first thing I noticed is that Bill is lazy. He came shuffling up to his door, stuck his arms between the bars, waved and said "Hi!" in an eerily cheerful voice. I saw movement near his feet- in his shuffle to the door he'd disturbed the dust bunnies in his cell, which were the size of small tumbleweeds. As I said, Bill is lazy.

One time I saw him "washing" his laundry. He had put a shirt in his sink, jammed the button so the water kept running, and then shuffled back to his bed. Every 30 minutes or so he'd come shuffling back over to the sink and -with just his index finger- poke at the shirt he had in there. After about the fourth time he did this, I asked him what he was up to. He replied that washing machines have an "agitate" cycle, so he figured he'd do the same. I told him he'd probably have to agitate a bit more vigorously if he expected his shirt to get clean. He said, "If I did this to you, wouldn't you get agitated?" I had to admit that I most likely would. As an aside, when he finally took his shirt out of the sink, it was green. The water at Parchman isn't the best.

I imagine that in prison you're likely to hear a variety of tales moreso than in other places. I've heard my share, certainly. Bill's spiritual beliefs were a hodgepodge accumulation, and one of the tales he shared with me was from when he was attempting to become a monk. Via correspondence. I guess it's possible, but I'd never heard of anyone doing it that way. According to Bill, at some point he disagreed with some essential doctrine or questioned some practices within the Church. He wrote to the Vatican and received a response from Cardinal Ratzinger, the Dean of the College of Cardinals at the time (and current Pope), saying he was anathema, from thenceforth excommunicated from the Church, and that he was, "Damned, damned, damned to hell, hell, hell." Thrice damned. Sounds like some conversations I've had with my exes.

In the following years, Bill went through some changes. His best friend on the row was executed and that deeply affected him. He lost weight, became more subdued. His death sentence was commuted to life without parole and he was released to general prison population. I don't know where he is now, but if you're out there, Bill...how's your pancreas? =)

-in memory of "Bart"

Having spent almost half of my life behind prison walls, I've been around some colorful characters. Here, for your reading enjoyment, I will list some of the worst nicknames I've heard since I've been in prison...

Thunder Cookie

Boo Gorilla

Ashtray

Mayonnaise

High Rank

Can't Get Right

Babyboy (doesn't seem right for an adult)

Suicide

Mongolia

Phathead

Fatfat

Taterhead

Coon Dick

Smoke One/Burn One

One Man Gang

Martial Arts

Crunchy Black

BBQ

Skoochie

Cornbread

Butterbean

Butter-roll

Seafood Lover

Scroll

Swisha

Toot

Pokey

Papa Skeet ("skeet" being slang for ejaculate)

Big Papa/Big Daddy (one adult male should not call another adult male either of these)

Then you have your generic nicknames like "money" or "town" (A-money, B-town, C-money, D-town, etc.) or your drug-related nicknames (bag, sac, pound, kilo). I've never understood how you can choose your own nickname, anyway. I'd like to know what you think- what is the worst nickname out of the bunch? Or do you have some to add? Feel free to comment.

Breakfast was once my favorite meal. I'm not sure when that changed, but after being at Parchman for years I'm just thankful when I don't get a case of food poisoning. Since arriving at Wilkinson County Correctional Facility, I haven't had to worry about that. A lot of the guys have complained about the size of the portions, and true enough we aren't getting the amount of calories we are supposed to. But I'll gladly make that trade-off to keep from contracting food-borne illness.

If a mouse's survival depended on what I leave on my trays here at WCCF, it would have starved to death within the first few days. When a tray leaves out of this cell you would seriously doubt there was ever food on it. Ever heard that calorie restriction diets prolong life? I'll keep you posted on that one...

We have an officer here in HJK section that makes me think of Fred G. Sanford's older, skinnier, grumpier brother with a three-pack-a-day smoking habit (if Fred had such a brother). The last few mornings he has been passing out trays downstairs on this pod. I don't interact with many people at all, so we've never had a reason not to get along.

At breakfast we get our tray, a half-pint of milk, and 6 oz. of juice or maybe coffee. So, Fred's older, skinnier, grumpier brother with a three-pack-a-day smoking habit hands me my tray and milk, then asks if I want any juice/coffee. I hand him my cup. Now, the way the cambro that holds the juice/coffee is sitting on the cart puts the nozzle close to the floor. And there's Fred's older, skinnier, grumpier brother with a three-pack-a-day smoking habit, with his head down, ass in the air, cigarette in his mouth with ashes as long as my middle finger dangling directly over my cup.

Allow me to reiterate something: I'm not a morning person. As I see this cigarette ash dangling above my cup I begin to pray, God, give me the strength to not snatch his old ass through my door if those ashes fall into my cup... I feel that God heard my prayer. The ashes somehow didn't fall, Fred's older, skinnier, grumpier brother with a three-pack-a-day smoking habit stood up and handed me my cup, took the cigarette out of his mouth and smiled big enough to show all of his teeth. All three of them. Like he was amazed the ashes didn't fall in there, too.

The next morning it happened almost the exact same way. I was praying, Lord, I know my cup runneth over and all that, but don't let it be with cigarette ashes. By the third morning I had decided I no longer wanted any juice or coffee. I might be crazy, but I'm not stupid.