12 comments/ 15395 views/ 3 favorites Prison Dreamcaster By: jd4george On the shadowed rim of lost nightmares, haunted by visions of the Reaper and the Brothers Grim, it’s hard to find the distinction between what is real and what is an illusion. Sitting on the edge of just such a pointless realization, I crushed out the last bit of my “rollie”, (better known as a cheap, hand-rolled smoke), and carefully tucked it into the worn-out Marlboro box that had served as my cigarette case for the past few weeks. Things had gotten pretty lean. The bail money, and the few dollars from family and friends, didn’t last long in the daily marathon of investing tobacco in card games and shooting lousy pool. Worse yet, protection was expensive. It had been all-too-easy to turn from “new meat” with some money on account to a member of the faceless scores with 18 cents and some cuffed rollies. That half-smoked butt would taste like a little bit of heaven tomorrow morning after breakfast, when the “usuals” sat down to the daily ritual of “The Beverly Hillbillies”. I’d try to score some coffee from one of the new guys and for 30 minutes I’d try to forget where I was. I’d forget what I’d lost. I’d forget the woman I had left on the outside. Prison was bad, but not having her beside me was the worst price I paid for my stupidity. It was a daily fine that was collected piece-by-blessed-piece, like Shylock carving the pound of flesh… ripping little pieces from my soul. With my half-butt safely stored in the Marlboro box and tucked under my pillow, I turned to the wall as “Lights out!” echoed through the cellblock. I pulled the rough, tattered blanket up under my chin and wrapped my arms around me, trying to shut out the din of nighttime jail. On the edge of tortured sleep, I willed myself to surrender. Somewhere, the last chants of the Reaper faded and like the fog retreating before the sun, my dreamland came into focus. The sun began to torch the sky in flames of red and orange… I could hear the soft calls of the loons and the water lapping at the shore. I could feel the warmth of the fading sun as it brushed the earth, chasing my shadow to hide among the great pines of the woods. The wafting smoke of the hearth fire broke the thick scent of pine needles, crushing beneath my feet. The cabin was nestled deep within the wood on the shore of a long-forgotten pond that the two of us had discovered, shortly after discovering each other. She was 28, and an artist and teacher. I was a good deal older and had long since made a name for myself in business. We were newly in love and greeted each day with innocence and passion. Every moment together was discovery. Every discovery was a new milestone. Every milestone was a new marker in our young life together. For the first time in my life, I knew what love was. We had stolen a weekend together and had set out to explore the countryside in the northern part of the state. Playing a silly game of “Left, then Right”, we had let fate decide which way for us to turn every time the road forked, or we came to four corners. Our last right turn had led us down the dirt road that snaked through the forested countryside, and hugging the shore of the pond, deposited us in a clearing carved around the cabin. It wasn’t much to look at. Built in the twenties as lodging for one of the lumber barons that plundered the north woods, it had fallen into disuse during the war. Since then, it acted as occasional refuge for hunters, and even more rarely, as a weekend retreat for executives fleeing the city in search of a back-to-nature experience. The cabin was constructed of great planks of cedar, piled and pegged together like a giant set of Lincoln Logs. One end boasted a fieldstone fireplace that covered the entire wall from floor to ceiling. Set into it was a great, thick hunk of wood some fourteen inches thick that served as the mantle piece. Carved in the underbelly of the plank were the words: “Built by CS when I swet fur nothin”. CS had become the hero of the fables we spun for each other as we languished in front of the roaring fire, sipping wine, listening to the rain and making love. The place was too right not to become ours. After nearly a year of searching through county records, writing letters and making phone calls, we had bought the cabin and had signed the twenty-year lease with the Paper Company that owned most of the state. Once the cabin was ours, we had run away to our safe haven nearly every weekend. Every weekend that is, until court. I had gotten stupid and greedy… and had gotten caught. I hadn’t hurt anyone. I hadn’t stolen. I hadn’t even lied. What I had done was to front money for a couple of my former fraternity brothers to start a business that would offer quick returns. What I hadn’t known was that the business was smuggling dope. In the eyes of the court, being the Money Man equaled being the kingpin. It would be another 20 years before I could hope to return to my life. When that day came, I would be an old, old man. Until then, I would have to be content with my nightly escape of the six by nine concrete room, when I sought the comfort of the cabin in my dreams. In the dream, as the shadows lengthened and wrapped around the trees, mingling with the growing mist of dusk, I would enter the cabin. As always, I would find her silhouetted against the fireplace. She would turn toward me, a glass of white wine dangling from her fingers and a smile spreading across her lips. As she placed the glass on the mantle, I would walk over to her, sliding my arms around her waist. I would nuzzle her ear, and she would murmur. My blood would warm as I gently caressed her. My hands would belie my love and want. I would watch our shadows dancing in the firelight, a tender ballet of motion… building slowly, first as two, then as one. Turning... moving... joining… then, joining again. Our shadows would arch and fall, melting into the slumber that follows passion’s toil. In the aftermath of that dance, we slept basked in the firelight. The crackling of the fire began to fade as the cabin slipped from view. I rolled over in the bunk, kicking the tattered blanket off from me. This hated part of night was neither dreaming, nor waking. It hung to the jagged edges of reality, whispering haunted promises of what might have been. All I wanted to do was to fall back asleep… to shut out the noise… to shut out the regret. Each night was the same. For a while, I had I blessed escape of my dream. Then came the waking: Toss. Turn. Squirm and toss again. Sigh. Gasp. Fidget. Sweat. Squirm-and-toss-again. It was the worst part of every day. There was no prayer of sleep. No escape. Night would slip into my bed and torture me until morn. I was awake again. My mind wandered through random things. I thought of my friends on the outside and our daily ritual of money chasing, skirt chasing and tail chasing. We all congratulated themselves on our mutual victories. All the while, our eyes were glued to the bottom line and the precepts of profitability. It was all bullshit! I was here and they were there and they didn’t have the foggiest idea of what was important. God, how I missed us! Berating us made me feel better. I was abandoned, and that angered me. It wasn’t fair! I hadn’t done anything wrong. Yet I was tried. Convicted. Dispensed with. “Sir, your case has been dispensed with.” “If we could dispense with any further interruptions.” “We’ll dispense with any further actions.” They could dispense with my ass! I turned over in the bunk and looked around the cell. The lights were still off and echoing throughout the cellblock were the collective snores, sighs and rustled slumber of incarcerated men. I noted the difference in their sleep. “It must be something about these walls,” I mused. It had to be. On the outside, sleep is taken in satisfying bursts with the lungs drawing night deep within to mix with the soul. Here, each breath was taken in cautious reserve, like freely breathing was a crime… that stealing sleep was not tolerated. “Stupid thing to be thinking about!” I muttered. Shrugging off the thought, I climbed out of the bunk and walked over to the window. “Walked over to” was hyperbole extended. The room was small, jam-packed with my meager belongings. All was bolted to the floor: the footlocker, the bunk, the sorry excuse for a desk and, of course, the throne. I could stand in the middle of the room and touch all that existed within the walls… my world was six feet by nine feet and painted putrid green, cased in steel and concrete that reverberated with every thought, every movement. I reached down and fumbled for the Marlboro box with the half-smoked rollie. This was one vice I was damned if I would give up. While the walls and all-too-pervasive eyes of this place had effectively eliminated the rest of my bodily cravings, this love affair with nicotine was not so easily ignored as were wine, women and song. I struck a match and the shadows of the room came alive, dancing and wavering with the flame. Drawing slowly on the match, the smoke reached deep within my lungs. I exhaled, extinguishing the flame. I turned to the window and stared out at the black and blue of night. Thoughts of her started creeping back in... the loss… the separation. My eyes began to mist as the hollow pit of my stomach swallowed another piece of my heart. “I can’t keep living like this. I need out of this hell. Please, God…” I lapsed into silence as tears streaked my cheeks. The rollie was short and burned my fingers. I carefully stubbed it out on the concrete slab that served as a windowsill as I took hold of me, bridling in my emotions and sliding the half-inch butt back into the Marlboro box. “I want sleep,” I thought. I climbed back into the bunk. I felt the tears welling up again. “Please, God…” I drew a slow, deep breath and shut my eyes. After a fashion, nothingness came. Then, mercifully, sleep. The dream began to form… The familiar watercolor sun began to torch the sky in flames of red and orange. I could again hear the soft calls of the loons and the water lapping at the shore. I could again feel the warmth of the fading sun as it brushed the earth, chasing my shadow to hide among the great pines of the woods. “I’m back,” I thought. I felt anticipation mounting, as the awareness of what waited ahead seemed to creep into my consciousness. I looked around me. It was the same: the trees, the pond, the path that snaked up to the cabin. The shadows lengthened and wrapped around the trees, mingling with the growing mist of dusk. I entered the cabin. As always, I found her silhouetted against the fireplace. She turned toward me, the glass of white wine dangling from her fingers and a smile spreading across her lips. As she placed the glass on the mantle, I walked walk over to her, and slid my arms around her waist. I nuzzled her ear, and she murmured. My blood warmed as I gently caressed her. I bent my face down, my lips seeking hers. She responded by pressing back with an urgency that bespoke her need for me. Our lips parted, the tip of my tongue reaching across to meet the fullness of her mouth… exploring… searching… asking silent questions. My hands slid to the small of her back and she melted against me. I splayed my fingers out, tracing light patterns along her sides, my thumbs brushing against her breasts. I could feel the stiffening pleasure as her nipples pressed against the thin silk of her robe. I caressed her sides, letting my hands drift to her buttocks. I began to throb. I quickly found the sash that closed the gown around her, loosened the cloth and let my hands slide over the milky softness of her skin. Her hands, in turn, fumbled with my belt, seeking to free me from my captivity. As her fingers brushed against me for the first time, I surrendered to my passion. I was hunter with prey… the knight and Genevieve… visions and dreams and lovers seeking each other’s souls… Her gown fluttered to the floor, joined quickly by my clothing. The fire sputtered and danced, and the soft, throbbing glow painted highlights along our hips as we joined and melted together. I watched our shadows dancing in the firelight, a tender ballet of motion… building slowly, first as two, then as one. Turning… moving... joining… and then, joining again. Our shadows arched and fell, melting into the slumber. The crackling of the fire began to fade, and the cabin slipped from view. Another day assaulted me. The clanging of the metal doors began to scream up and down the catwalk as the ever-present stink of prison filtered into my nose. I stumbled from the bunk, stretching and cursing. I started to reach for the Marlboro box, only to remember I had but one half inch of tobacco filled paper left. I teetered on the edge of want and discretion, and finally stuffed the box in my shirt pocket. Time for the daily mental ritual: “Set your sights on the first good thing. So, what the fuck is it? Mail! Just after breakfast, there’s mail!” Had she read my last poem to her, I wondered? Had she written something for me? We had settled into a pleasant pattern of writing each other poetry. She loved words, and loved the music of poetry. She had first cajoled me. Then she pleaded with me. Finally I had consented to try my hand at it. “I think I’m getting better at it,” I mused. “There’s so much truth, here… so much pain.” I cruelly chuckled to myself. “And, so fucking much time!” She had lovingly guided my efforts. The teacher in her had a new student, and the child within me so very much wanted her approval. I walked over to the desk and shuffled through the meticulously ordered pile of correspondence. If I received another letter today, I’d have to select one of these letters to send home. It was one of the arcane and draconian punishments extorted from the inmates. You could have no more than 12 pieces of mail at any one time. The guards happily enforced it, confiscating all your mail if you happened to keep one extra piece of blessed correspondence from the ones who still professed to love you. I looked over her letters. I read each of them again, and then carefully selected the oldest one, folded it into thirds and placed it lovingly inside the letter written over the past two days. Then I reached for notebook containing my growing poetic efforts and carefully tore out the page with my latest poem. I sat down on the bunk and read through my words, fearing once again that we would not be worthy of her. Or, worse, that she might see the transparent depression that was gnawing at me. **************************************** I'm Not Joseph Joseph wore a technicolor coat and God was on his side when they threw him in jail I wore a pinstriped suit and a silk tie God and I hadn't spoken in a long, long time Not true. I had spoken but He didn't return my calls maybe I wasn't home -- maybe it doesn't matter 'cause I ain't Joseph Nobody told me about the pain of blue skies seen through chainlink fences -- mist sparkles on razor wire designed to slice flesh from the bone. Nobody told me the dawn hurts. Nobody told me there were too many heartbeats to the minute. Too many hours. Too many days. The sound of the watch ticking on my arm bangs slowly in the back of my head some caller in a minaret sounding off the hours with deadly precision. Nobody told me it hurts when your heart is out of step. Nobody told me pride stings when they search you strip down -- bend over -- smile Nobody said it hurt to say your name. I ain't Joseph. She cried when I left. So'd my mother each tear scratching hollow veneer. I can handle it, one more tear -- one more silent whimper I can handle it. Metal bars slide to the left, clawing the soul only the sound calls out S-I-N-N-E-R as it lumbers to a stop. Silence -- I can handle it silence. Nobody told me the sound of the stars in the night is loud enough to burst the eardrums as if everyman who had gone before was singing in concert a fugue flickering to moonlit madness too loud -- too goddamn loud. Nobody told me the pain of the first visit or the ones after that. You see it in their eyes the separation -- the hurt in silent hugs You hear their eyes deny the forgiveness that trickles from their lips. How do you say you saw another man get raped and you couldn't do anything Or the cluster party -- the slow-motion beating of someone as frail as you feel they drop like a blanket folding over itself only the blood doesn't make a sound. You talk of nothing. Nobody wants you to worry you talk of nothing 'cause they cannot understand you talk of nothing and the words hurt. Nobody told me words can rip bits of your heart away or dreams can haunt you like a cruel lover sneaking into your bed. Nobody told me the walls and eyes and ears of this place swallow you until nothing remains. Nobody told me the ones you love, watch. Everything is fine. Don't worry about me. Did you get my letter? Will you write to me? I'm fine. **************************************** I took a deep breath, and exhaled. “Let your words be honest. Let me hear your voice.” Wasn’t that what she had said? I carefully slid the poem in beside the letters and sealed the envelope. Thankfully, the state allowed each inmate one stamp per day. I had scored two stamps from one of the other inmates for sweeping the common room for him. With today’s stamp allowance, I had enough to mail this letter. Tucking it carefully into my pocket, I awaited for the call for breakfast. A half an hour later, I had choked down the powdered eggs and lousy coffee. On the way out of the dining room I had posted my letter. The next few days were the same mindless torture of the minutes slowly creeping by. First, came night and the promise of sleep, then the tender release of the dream followed by the waking. Each morning I had gone through the daily ritual: “Set your sights on the first good thing. So, what the fuck is it? Mail! Just after breakfast, there’s mail!” Each morning, I waited. Each morning, the guard finally appeared with the stack of letters and began calling out each name. With perverse delight, he called name after name. If you had a letter, he would announce how many. If you had none, the guard would grin and say: “You get nothing.” Each time the midway point of the alphabet was reached, I mentally began to count down to my name. “Two more… one more... me.” Each time, the guard looked at me and grinned. “You get nothing.” Each time, my heart fell. Each time, I girded myself for the next 24 hours… the mindless torture… the arrival of night and the promise of sleep… the tender release of the dream followed by the waking. With mindless sameness, I had gone through the ritual: “Set your sights on the first good thing. So, what the fuck is it?” The guard finally appeared with the stack of letters and began calling out the names. “Two more. One more. Me.” The guard looked at me and grinned. “You get nothing.” My heart fell… again. The ensuing deluge of fear and loss, worry and rampant paranoia flooded over me. Was she all right? Did she forget? Why hadn’t she written? I surrendered to the depressing litany of questions and trudged back to my cell. I spent the remainder of the morning in pointless pursuit of answers. I had tried to score a cup of coffee from several other guys, but all reminded me that I still owed them for cigarettes, or coffee, or stamps. I cursed my luck and jailhouse poverty. I tried to write another poem. I tried to read. I wandered the common room. I thought about playing cards, but I had nothing to gamble. I retreated to the six by nine piece of real estate that the state had condemned me to live in for the next twenty years. I was morose. I grabbed a small slip of paper and began to mindlessly doodle, my thoughts playing hide-and-seek with my spirit, and my soul was losing. In a subconscious effort to bring order to my rampant depression, I began to play with numbers, muttering to myself. Prison Dreamcaster “One year is three hundred and sixty-five days…” I scribbled the figure on the paper. “…with an extra one added for leap year. Fuck! That’s one hundred and seventy-five thousand, three hundred and twenty hours…” The mathematics was coming easily. I picked up speed, the pencil scratching figures into the paper. “Ten million, five hundred and nineteen thousand minutes. Let’s see… at sixty heartbeats a minute for twenty years…” I scribbled furiously, haphazardly drawing the final number. I stared at it, then dropped the pencil and closed my eyes. “We're talking about my heart wearing out…” The day stretched into night and my depression continued to worsen. I refused to sleep. I fought the demons. Every parry… every blow chipped another small piece of me away. I kept thinking about her. She claimed to love me. She had spurned any thought of abandoning me, or leaving me, or finding comfort in another’s arms. She tried to reassure me at every possible moment that I was the man she loved. She didn’t care how long, or at what cost… she was my, and I was hers. I tried to believe her. I wanted to believe her. I had to believe her. Somewhere, just before dawn, as I wiped away the tears of the most recent battle with my heart, I came to a conclusion. If I truly loved her, I had to set her free. I looked at the worn-out Marlboro box. “To hell with it!” I fished out a precious little stub of a stolen butt retrieved from an ashtray and carefully set it ablaze. I drew the smoke deep within my lungs, letting the nicotine work its magic. With three quick drags, the tiny bit of tobacco disappeared. My thumb and forefinger were burned, but I felt no pain. I sat there staring at my stained fingers as the morning bloomed around me. It wasn’t until the guard hollered “Mail!” that anything pierced the growing stupor of my depression. Even then, the guard had to holler my name twice before I realized I was summoned. “You got… one!” Trance-like, I took the envelope and stumbled back into my cell. I watched my fingers open the seal and extract the letter. The handwriting was intricate lace and I found myself reading and rereading the words trying to extract some meaning from the tightly woven threads of letters and words. She had gotten my poem and was worried. She lamented that there were 41 more days before our next visit, 9 more days before the sweet relief of the monthly phone call… the five uninterrupted minutes of hearing each other’s voice. She wrote of daily things... the little battles of simple life. Mostly, she was worried. She sensed my despair… my surrender. A smaller sheet of scented, embossed paper fluttered to the floor. I reached down and retrieved it. She had written me a poem. **************************************** Stone Like two hearts waiting to be freed from stone etched by some sculptor's hand we stand apart yet are one and the stone breathes **************************************** Under those few simple lines of verse she had written six short words. I read them again. Then, I read them again. I dropped the paper on my bunk and wandered out into the common room. I needed a smoke! Someone had to have one for me. Someone had to give me one. There had to be someone in that cursed hell that would give this condemned man his final cigarette. I stumbled from rejection to rejection until I came to the new guy. “Bum a smoke, bro?” Whether out of fear, or loathing, or simply not caring, the guy reached into his pocket and pulled out three sleek sticks of tobacco and held them up. The guy never looked up from the table. A few seconds passed. “You want’em, or not?” I reached out and snatched the cigarettes, mumbling some sort of thanks. Somehow finding my way back to my cell, I searched for my matchbook and with trembling fingers lit the end of the smoke. I reached down and carefully lifted the pale, scented paper. The words were still there. “You are my life… marry me.” I felt light-headed as a confusing blend of joy and regret swirled around me. The poem was so simple. No wasted words. No stilted music. My mind began to replay the quiet refrain… “One stone, two hearts, one breath”. It was simple. “One… two… one. One to one, and the stone breathes.” “I can’t marry you… I can’t.” I was feeling frantic… frenetic. I was a mouse in a cage, a rat in a maze. I began doing a nervous shuffle step… slide right and touch the wall, slide left and touch the wall. Breathing was becoming difficult. “I can’t marry you. I can’t. How can I ask you to tether yourself to me? I’m here, condemned to another twenty years of pacing this cell and sweeping floors for cigarettes. I’m hiding from the strong. I’m hiding from the weak. I’m counting minutes and hours as if listening to the clock makes the day go faster…” I was literally bouncing off the walls, slamming my shoulders against the cold concrete. I was ricocheting from side to side in the six by nine chamber of torture. I tried to stop. I wrapped my arms around my chest, holding on… willing me to stop. My heart hurt. My head was pounding. I stood in the center of my little world as the despair swallowed me. I took shallow breaths. They were coming faster and faster and I finally realized I was hyperventilating. I shook my head and then collapsed on the bunk, crushing the sweet-scented paper beneath me. Tears were streaking my cheek as the weight of the next twenty years began to crush the remaining tender parts of my soul. It took me nearly an hour to regain control. By the time I finally restored order to my rampant emotions, I realized I had made a decision. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t marry her. I couldn’t let her make that mistake. I couldn’t ask her to willingly condemn herself to a lifetime of stolen moments. I couldn’t ask her to live from phone call to phone call, visit to visit. I couldn’t ask her to surrender the chance to have children… she so wanted to be a mother. We had spent hours upon hours discussing how there was nothing more joyful… no gift from God more sweet than bringing another life into the world. There was no greater celebration of life than giving life. How could I ask her to let that dream go, as if it were nothing more than a balloon loosened in the wind? I realized I had cocooned into the fetal position and was so tightly holding on to myself that my muscles ached. I began to mutter to myself. “You fucking asshole. You’ve already ruined your own life… now she wants you to ruin hers… all because you love her… because she loves you. At least, she thinks she does…” Swinging my legs over the edge, I sat up in the bunk. The crinkling of the paper underneath me seemed to strengthen my resolve. I reached under my butt and pulled the poem free. Despite the thoughtless abuse my tantrum had reigned upon the small sheet of paper, the words still sung out in perfect clarity. “You are my life… marry me.” Slowly, like the fog retreating before my dream, I settled upon my solution. “Two hearts, one breath. But, one heart can still breathe alone…” I let the scented paper drift to the floor and began to slowly rock. Each pendulum swing of my body marked the silent, tortured passage of another lost moment. I continued my rocking until the morning finally wound its way through the melee of midday. Even then, I did not stop. I refused to eat. I refused to stand, or move from the hard edge of my bunk. I continued rocking. Forward. Back. Forward. Back. The day continued its inevitable march toward night. I kept thinking about her. She claimed to love me. She had spurned any thought of abandoning me. I had to release her from that vow… that promise borne out of another life, another time. The misery of the shadows in my cell had long since surrendered to blackness as the ragged noise of night drifted along the cellblock. My mouth was parched, and my tongue dragged its sandpaper dryness over the roof of my mouth as I continued my quiet chant: “Two hearts, one breath. But, one heart can still breathe alone… Two hearts, one breath. But, one heart can still breathe alone…” I fumbled in the dark for the tattered Marlboro box and extracted the second sleek, factory-rolled cigarette that I had scored from the new guy. I struck a match and carefully lit the end, drawing the delicious smoke into my lungs. It was time. I watched the match flame waver and sputter, burning down to my fingers. It felt icicle cold. When it finally expired, I dropped the remaining cinder onto the floor and reached for the plastic razor that was provided by the state. I flicked the ash from my cigarette and returned it to my lips as I struck another match. I held the flame to the plastic rivet that held the protective covering in place. There was a perverse satisfaction in watching the plastic shrivel and wilt. I carefully held the match to other side, and just as quickly, the second rivet shriveled. I shook out the match and waited for my eyes to recover from the momentary blindness. I peered through the darkness to the small piece of plastic in my hands. I slipped my fingernail under the edge of the still warm plastic and began to apply pressure. Slowly increasing my efforts, I gently pried the edge of the protective covering out of the way and dropped the plastic to the floor. Cradling the thin, sliver of steel in my palm, I took the cigarette butt from my mouth and flicked the ashes into the pile at my feet. I stared at the butt, still glowing in my fingers. “There ought to be a ritual,” I said, muttering to myself. Would she understand this ultimate sacrifice, this ultimate act of love? I hungrily took the last drag from the butt, watching the compact fire burn into the filter, and then dropped the remaining ash into the pile. I carefully wedged the thin razor blade between my fingers, feeling the small piece of razor blade nestle perfectly between my fore and middle fingers. It was part me. I could feel the warmth of my fingers slowly heating the silvery slip of steel until I felt no difference between my fingers and the metal. I flexed my fingers and the slip of metal slashed through the night air like a raptor’s talon. I flexed them again and the blade cut more air. I glanced out through the small window at the night sky. There was no moon… no smoky clouds smudging the winking lights of the stars. The only thing greeting my stare was the silent black of another lost night. “Two hearts, one breath. But, one heart can still breathe alone… Forgive me, but I have to set you free.” I could feel the tingle of goose bumps rising on the backs of my arms, the tickling pinpricks slipping up to the back of my neck. It was time. I slowly lay back on the bed and closed my eyes. Without fanfare or hesitation I brought the little steel talon down across my wrist. I felt nothing. The last chants of the Reaper slowly slipped from my mind. The fog welled up, encasing me in silence and the darkness flickered, slowly retreating before the sun. It began to torch the sky in flames of red and orange… I could hear the soft calls of the loons and the water lapping at the shore. I could feel the warmth of the sun as it brushed the earth, chasing my shadow. My dreamland was coming into focus. The familiar watercolor sunset swirled above me as the heady sweetness of the wood mixed with the thick moist scent of the pond. The late day heat began to bead mists of sweat on my back. I looked around. It was the same trees, the same pond, and the same path snaking up to the cabin. But, it was a little too real. My eyes slid over the picture before me, drinking in every detail. There was the gnarled trunk of the oak that squatted at the edge of the clearing… the stiff backs of the red pines… the mottled bark of the random cedar that had escaped the lumberjack’s axe… the gray-brown of the cabin and the smoke whisping from the stone chimney… My eyes welled up and instantly I was struck through by regret. “God, what have I done?” Panic was coursing through me. “This isn’t right. I love her more than life itself. I would do anything for her.” I could hear the gentle laughter of the loons in the background. “If I were free and she were in prison, I would happily wait for her… be strong for her… isn’t that what love is?” I stood on the path, the thick pine needles cushioning my feet from the hard-packed summer soil. “I’d love her for better, or for worse. I’d live my life waiting… because being apart, and willingly waiting, would be the purest show of love. And, I’d do it happily.” The tears were coming freely. “Yet, I deny her that same chance at loving me?” A strangled sob worked its way out from my mouth. “Oh, God… I’m so sorry... forgive me.” I was fully crying now. The years of stoic denial breached the dam and my heart broke. I dropped to my knees, my sobs bouncing off the quietness of the wood. I closed my eyes and the torrent washed down my cheeks. “God? Help me please…” It may have been minutes, or it may have been hours, but when my tears finally stopped the sky was still a swirling watercolor of blood and orange. Smoke was still curling out from the cabin’s chimney like a signal from some captain’s house in the last century. All that was missing was the sight of her peering out to sea from the widow’s walk. I struggled to my feet and began wind my way through the remaining trees until I approached the cabin’s door. My hand reached down and turned the latch. The memory of the country yard sale flashed through my mind. We had not only found the latch, but the two oil lanterns that graced the mantelpiece inside. The door swung away and the smell of the hearth fire greeted me. I forced myself to not look in the direction of the fireplace where I knew she would be silhouetted by the backlight of the flames, her long white nightgown hiding the supple nakedness underneath. Instead, I took pleasure in letting my eyes drink in the interior of the cabin: the scattered tins and pictures adorning the walls, the old braided rug that defined the kitchen area from the rest of the great room, the wicker chairs and the painted rocker, the shelves full of books. As my eyes settled on each, there were flashes of memory. The two of us picking up an item here, or bidding on another at some out-of-the-way estate auction… our smiles and little celebrations at each new acquisition. We had sensed that each was a part of our life together, a little piece of tomorrow… a quiet sign of permanence. I was happy. I felt a joy that had been missing for the past year slowly creeping back into my soul. I drew a breath and looked to the fire. She was there, as I had known she would be. I stood there for a moment, drinking her in. Her eyes sparkled and flickered with the reflection of the flames. “Are you going to just stand there, or are you going to come over here and kiss me?” It was her voice… but did she speak in my dream? Doubt tugged at the corner of my mind. “Well?” She had a playful pout twisted on her face. She held it for a moment before breaking into a smile. I walked across to her, arms out to gather her in. “She’s supposed to be facing the other way,” I thought. I bent my face down, my lips seeking hers. She responded, pressing back with an urgency that bespoke her need for me. Our lips parted, the tip of my tongue reaching across to meet the fullness of her mouth, again exploring… searching… asking silent questions. My hands slid to the small of her back and she melted against me. I splayed my fingers out, tracing light patterns along her sides as my thumbs brushed against her breasts. I could feel the stiffening pleasure as her nipples pressed against the thin silk of her robe. I caressed her sides, letting my hands drift to her buttocks. I began to throb, my firmness seeking the hollow of her loins. I quickly sought the sash that closed the gown around her, loosened the cloth and let my hands slide over the milky softness of her skin. As her fingers brushed against me for the first time, I surrendered to my passion. I slid my hand behind her neck, grabbing a thick mane of her hair. I pulled her against my chest and brought her lips to mine. I savored the luxury of exploring her mouth, dipping along the tender flesh inside her lips… the smoothness of her teeth… the firm wriggling of her tongue muscle captured in my lips. In my want, I roughly parted her tender lips and my tongue plunged into her sweet mouth. I crushed her lips beneath mine, forcefully sucking her tongue into my mouth, nipping the tip gently with my teeth before again driving deeply into hers. She looked up at me with a look that spoke volumes. I knew that whatever I asked would be willingly given. She smiled at me with an intoxicating mixture of wanton surprise and naïve desire. Then again, it may well have been what I wanted to see… what I needed to see. As her hands went to my pants, I brought my right hand to her breast and began to gently massage the warm, firm mound. My thumb found her thick, stiff nipple and I began to rub it gently, using my thumb to flirt with the supple nub. She flipped the tongue of my belt loose and unclasped my trousers effortlessly. There was no fumbling. Quite the contrary, she was peeling away my clothes with the deft agility of a courtesan. My zipper sung out softly as it slid down, following her fingers to the base of my lurching cock. She glanced up at me and smiled before gently pulling the elastic band of my shorts out over my happily dancing prick and pinned them below with her thumb. I reluctantly pulled my hand away from her breast, giving her room to maneuver her face over my little waiting soldier that was impatiently standing at attention. As she brought her lips to the glistening head, she purposely exhaled, and the intoxicating warmth of her breath encircled me. I twitched in delight. I slipped my hand under the silk that draped across her back and traced my fingers lightly along her spine, mirroring the movement of her lips over my cock. As her lips encircled me, her tongue washed over the bulbous head now in her mouth. I slid my fingers along her spine, over her panties and down into the cloth covered hollow. I kneaded her buttocks, feeling the smooth pink material as it slid under my fingers. Pressing my fingers together, I dipped my finger paddle into the moist recesses that slithered up to her vagina. I continued to dip my fingers again, and again, matching the plunging motion of her mouth. She slowly drew her mouth back, and hovered just above the fleshy helmet. Her tongue fluttered, and the tip of my cock was lost in a seeming flock of butterflies, little wings beating gently against my stamen. The moist wings of the butterflies disappeared as her full, perfectly matched lips formed an “O”. She drew her breath in, and the coolness of that rushing air caused the nerve endings in my foreskin to twitter. Then I was plunged into the dark, wet recess of her mouth. Her fingers led her mouth and were jammed at the base of my scrotum, the tight ring of fingers flexed firmly against my sac. My heartbeat fell in line, seemingly marching to the cadence of her hand. It was becoming harder and harder for me to focus. I wanted to ease my head back, close my eyes and surrender to the assaulting forces of her mouth. I chose, instead, to continue with my own movements around her flanks. My fingers continued winnowing into the furrow between her legs. Her panties were drenched with the flow of juices that I was raising from her loins. After probing and caressing the expanse of panty covered flesh, I withdrew my hand, preparing to slide the dark, pink silk over her delectable, firm butt. My sexual heat gave me pause, and I brought my hand to my lips. The pungent scent of her curled through my nose, and I drew it in, letting its essence seep into the dark, hidden parts of me. I ran my tongue over the sweet, viscous nectar that glistened on my fingers, tasting the rawness of her. My chest tightened in rampant want. Prison Dreamcaster I returned my hand to the firm ass that bounced there, keeping time with her slowly bobbing head. I grabbed the thin line of elastic and rudely rammed it out of my way. Desire was obscuring clear thought and my pent up need had unleashed the animal. Somehow I managed to croak out a warning. “Hmmfff?” Her lips never left my cock. “Tell me if I hurt you.” My hand roughly sought the tender lips of her labia. I slid my fingertips into the wet mouth of her maidenhood, rapidly running from the hooded cover of her clitoris, over the small ridge protecting the base, to the tight pucker of her anus. Want drove me. I suspended my two middle fingers over her, and then drove them into her. She stiffened for a moment, then slowly relaxed as she accepted my attack. Her head picked up speed. My right hand continued its wanton thrusting. My hips were beginning to gyrate, and I began to gently ride my pelvis back and forth against her waiting mouth. Her tongue was wrapping and encircling my girth. The awkward position of my hand was causing my wrist to cramp, so I extracted my offending fingers. Continuing to greet her pumping face, I quickly shook my hand and feeling the soreness subside, brought it back to her. I massaged the great muscle, kneading my thumb into the nerve cluster near the back of her hip. My middle finger sought her anus. I pressed the tip against the dark brown iris and began to flick my finger in small, tight circles. With every couple of rotations, I pressed a little harder, a little deeper. Her suckling was becoming more audible with each tiny thrust of my finger. With one final thrust of passion enflamed courage I drove my finger to the hilt. The tight circle of her sphincter and the lush, thick heat of her anal canal was too much. I shuddered with delight. At the moment my finger pierced the dark depths of her, her head jerked back and she gasped for air. Her hand tightened around me, pumping harder than before. My finger was rhythmically slipping in and out of her, and with each thrust, she drew a quivered, gasping breath. She cradled my dick in her hand and began to slide her mouth along the underside, her teeth dragging at my obscenely enlarged flesh. Her breath was in perfect tempo to my driving finger. The gods of copulation had to be watching, for at the very instant that I withdrew my finger from the mouth of her colon, her lips found the head of my cock and she impaled herself. My goddess of fellatio worked sinfully delicious spell upon spell upon my trembling cock. Her head, my fingers, my hips and the very world around me were all writhing in unison. For the first time in my life, I felt the shadows of unconsciousness flirting with me as the tympanic pounding of our wanton dance crept to the edge of oblivion. I teetered there. Lewd flashes of light screamed at me, as the growing gasps of our spasmed breath became one voice. I could bear it no longer. My free hand twined its fingers into the thick hair at the back of her head. Holding that mane, I began to drive into her mouth. My right hand continued its assault, picking up speed. My hand was now slapping roughly against her ass, and each pelvic thrust into her mouth was greeted with gurgled breath. “Oh, God…” My voice was quivering, and I could feel tingles beginning to mercilessly needle my arms. “Oh… G… Go… God…” Each faltering sound was drenched in whimpers. I felt tears beginning to well up in my eyes. She glanced up at me, and when our eyes met, the world exploded. At the instant the first surge erupted, I heard myself gasp. It was more than that. It was a sob. As each subsequent torrent of seed shot through the aching tip of my penis, I sobbed again, and soon realized I was crying. The tears were freely running down my cheeks. My body was convulsing in a series of miniature seizures, each muscular contraction forcing another small wave into her mouth. Somewhere, a small pang of fear nipped my soul, and I realized I was giving her little room to breathe. I relaxed my iron grip and willed calm to wash over me. The tears were still flowing freely. I had never known such simple, overwhelming joy. I looked down at the small, now defenseless creature curled in my lap. She turned her head, glancing up at me with a look that was at once, satisfaction and hope. There was longing. There was titillation, and exhaustion. I was being given the rare gift of seeing true vulnerability, and in it, love. She noticed my tears, and a shadow broke the spell. Thankful compassion took me over. My arms slowly wrapped around her and I lowered my lips to gently kiss the top of head. I cradled her in my arms, rocking gently. I whispered and cooed. I was blathering. There were no words to offer her that could properly convey the rare happiness I was feeling. I loosened my hold on her, and she rolled away from me. There was a muddled softness in her eyes. There was also something else, but I couldn’t fathom what it was. That delicate vision was in direct contrast to the obscene amount of sperm that was smeared over her face. I don’t know if it was passion, or tender empathy, but I had to clean the carnage from her… and I had to do it then! I tenderly drew my fingers along her cheeks and across her chin, removing great gobs of semen. As lightly as possible, I drew my fingertips along her lips, cleaning away the sinful residue. Finished with my ministrations, I helped her sit back up. There was a quiet look of contentment, a dash of excitement, and touch of bewilderment. My eyes momentarily brimmed again. A small, demur smile crept on her face as she leaned toward me and began to lightly kiss the tears from my eyelids. “Two hearts, one breath…” A devilish smile emblazoned her face as she rolled on top of me. Her passion, and her want, soon enflamed me. We began another dance… one that I knew would rival the flames leaping in the fireplace. The room began to fade. At the first calling of the morning loon, I awoke. She still slept in my arms, contentment glowing on her face. I lay there watching… taking joy in her undisturbed slumber. After a fashion, I began to sense that something was different and my restlessness began to mount. Giving in to it, I unwrapped myself from her arms and loins, carefully covering her with the soft furs that had been our bed. I chuckled to myself. Those furs had been a great investment, in site of the fact they had cost more than either of us could truly afford. But, we had gotten our money’s worth! The furs had been our playground on more than one occasion, but none as wonderful as this. The softness of the fur seemed to spark something inside her like some mystical tie between our animal earthiness and her sensuality. I looked at her for a moment longer, wondering whether to wake her. I decided to let her sleep. I turned and padded quietly over to the door, easing out into the early morning light. Once outside, I headed down to the shore feeling like some primeval hunter in my nakedness, stalking the dawn. At the edge of the pond I stopped, watching the water lap at the loins of the earth as it let its wetness mingle with the sand. I bent down. The waves were leaving behind a smooth canvas of sand, and with my finger I slowly carved her name. I drew each letter slowly and carefully, treating each slight movement as if it were a sacred act. I sat back on my haunches and looked at the five figures that spelled her name, and I smiled at my handiwork. “God, I love that woman!” The contented spell shattered as a thought raced through my mind. The dream had never gone this far before! My pulse quickened, and my senses came alive. The hunter within heard a noise and I knew instantly that she was standing behind me. I knew, too, that she was smiling. I stood and turned toward her. She was wrapped in one of the great furs and it contrasted with the softness of her skin. My breath was quivering. I swallowed, choking back the rising tide that threatened to overwhelm me. I stretched my hand out to her and she smiled. I gathered her into my arms, and bent my lips close to her ear, whispering… “Two hearts, one breath…” She nuzzled against me, her answer almost inaudible. “And the stone breathes…” At that moment, a wave gently rode up on the shore, sliding along the smooth sand canvas. It reached higher and higher, until the fingers of water slowly dissolved the letters I had so carefully drawn. As I watched, a single tear ran down my cheek. It wavered… then dropped, kissing the earth beneath us. In return, the earth seemed to blush. EPILOGUE The guard slammed back the heavy metal door and hollered the perfunctory “Get up! Everyone up!” It was the mindless routine of a state worker closing in on retirement… ten days on, fours days off, eight hours of the same mind-numbing futility. He stood outside the cell for a moment, letting his weary senses process what appeared before him. “What the fuck!” It couldn’t be! It was impossible! The cell had been checked every twenty minutes throughout the night. Panic sucked at the pit of his stomach. He knew his senses weren’t lying. The bed was rumpled and obviously slept in. The window bars were still in place, bolted from the inside and out, and the half-inch weld that rimmed the window frame was still intact. The prisoner’s clothes were heaped on the floor and a Marlboro box was crumpled beside the pillow. He reached for the box and opened it. There was one unsmoked cigarette inside. He stared at it for a moment, as if it might hold the secret to what the hell had happened. His mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. He glanced around the room once more. Other than the crumpled Marlboro box and the pile of clothing, the cell appeared empty. “Goddamn it!” He spun around and stormed back to the guard station. As the phone lines burned between him and the warden, the inmates began to gather like flies around carrion, flitting and buzzing. The claxons began to blare and the inmates continued to clamber with ignorant curiosity, jostling and pushing each other, vying to get a peek inside the cell. The guard returned with his baton drawn, standing ready to levy judgment on those that defied his orders. “Get your asses back into your fucking cells or I’m gonna crack some fucking heads.” In the commotion, he backed into the now empty cell, his heels dragging through the dirt and dust that lie beside the bunk. As he did, he unwittingly erased five carefully drawn figures etched in the pile of cigarette ashes. The five letters had spelled her name.