These are excerpts from Unit 29: Writing from Parchman Prison (VOX Press 2024) anthologized by Louis Bourgeois.
An interview with Louis Bourgeois by Mike Puican was published on March 11, 2025.
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MY STRUGGLE DOING TIME
The days are passing fast. God is claiming his own
Yes! Roll call/Better get right! He’s like a thief in
The night time. Changing times cars flying
People at war in the UK and people dying of COVID
19. We all crying! Time: young foolish inmates think
This is funny! Half living a foolish dream calling me
Old. But they don’t have any $ time what the speck
And what they do and what they stand for don’t make
Sense! Time funny! What they say don’t make
Any dollars so it equals no cents.
Remember me I’m going down as a real OG
When they bury me. Yea! A deposit in the earth.
6 ft. under. Not a young boy from hard time
Mississippi. Time! A buccaneer! From my mama womb! Passing time!
I’m a special child. With a halo over my head
One of God. Clique. Exclusive group of Christian
My mama was raped! That’s how I got
Into the world! Force! A young she was
Time! She doing time and passing time along
With me! Too long set my mama free MDOC
Everyone else has beat me home set free.
I’m a misfit in this environment.
Misery! Abuse. Neglected again. Time
My struggles my pains my life passing time. END.
Bryant Kirk
FROM THE DEPTHS OF THE BEAST
From the Depths of the Beast arises a chance for freedom from within. After
ten and half years in solitary confinement, I have finally regained a chance at
staying in general population. It is a greater freedom than I have had in over the
past decade of my life, and a much more preferable living area while waiting
and working toward a chance at release from prison to a second chance in life.
The ability to be able to work around the prison, go to the dining hall, etc., all
seems so small but for someone whom has giving up on retaining these priv-
ileges again some years ago, it is a blessing. The freedom of space and activity
is something a body needs.
Walks in the rain to the dining hall is just as relaxing on the inside as the old
tin roofs on raining days. Freedom of social environments have been deprived
of the past decade doing long-term lock down time.
Playing cards, lack of mail, calls, all that gives a sense of our own freedom on
the inside. In another six years, I’m looking to hope the laws will let me parole
out of prison. To begin a new life and build me a family, growing children,
loving wife, & a house made into a home.
I was released in October of 2010 on parole at the age of 20 years old from
a 2-year prison sentence. After 10 months in the prison on a violation for an
under-age DUI at the age of 19 years old. Walking into the back door of the
administration building at Walnut Grove Youth Correctional Facility, the air
around me had the smell of fresh air. It has a different smell from inside the
facility grounds for some reason.
As I passed through the breezeway into the administration building, I was already
in free world clothes, jeans & polo, with tennis shoes on. Waiting in the front
lobby for me was my grandmother (who had stood beside me through my little
sentence and made sure I had store & hygiene every week). My mother (who also
had been there through the sentence), my brother, my ex, Brittany, I was with
when I first got locked up & Brooke, Brittany & Chris’s daughter she had the
August before I got the DUI. She was walking now; at my arrest she was only 2
½ months old. Brittany of course like most woman these days was off with other
men most of my sentence, a letter from time to time. She just happened to be
at my pop’s house the day I called to let them know of my release date and if
they were coming to pick me up. That weekend she moved back to my mama’s
house and came with them to pick me up the following week.
It felt so good stepping outside the facility and firing up a cigarette on the way
to the car. The little Delta 88 my grandma had at the time was full. Walking
out, I had cigarettes in my pocket and a little under an ounce of weed. I was
free and on my way.
It’s no other feeling of freedom that could feel so good as having gone from
confinement to complete freedom. To be close to loved ones, whom visited
every other week my whole sentence. The comfort of presence of conversation
about real world things. They all wanted to hear about how the time was, while
I was trying to catch up on the world since I’d been gone.
When I came back this time, my actions resulted in a total loss of freedom
completely, which in the end taught me a very valuable lesson on its value in
life. A little too late though after it’s gone. All I can hope for is that one day
God opens a door that will grant me the complete freedom of release, “a second
chance at life.” Now that I’ve been though all this and have learned life lessons
in losing it, I have a different sense of value and worth in it.
I enjoy every little extra freedom I gain on the inside. It gives me little strength
by little strength to hold on that life isn’t over completely. Once sentence to Life
w/o parole after leaving from a CWC, which is a work center, “it was supposed to
be fun for us but in the end a couple days after leaving, the assault of an elderly
lady during the break in of a house and stealing her car ended with her dying
from a single stab wound. Intended to stop the hollering and commotion not for
a kill took all our freedom away when she died. Not a day goes by I don’t wish I
could rewind the hands of time for the two of us and bring back life. Hers and
mine together. Though her life was at its end, mine was only in the beginning
and it ended before you really got started. I pray for her and pray the lord both
forgives me for the stupid choices me and a brother made that day.
If a day comes, I regain my freedom more than the freedom on the inside, I’ll
shall cherish it the rest of my days. Until then, I’ll take pride in my progress
on the inside and make the best of the freedom I have inside these walls.
Anthony Wilson
From a Child to a Man in Minutes by Marquez Hickenbottom
KITCHEN PUNCH LINE JELLS
My day started off early in the morning around 2:00 a.m. getting up and
ready for the kitchen. I started off by getting the food out the warehouse and
cold freeze. Coming out the warehouse be a 50 lb. bag of grits, a 50 lb. bag of
biscuit mix four cans of grape jelly then go over to the cold storage and get
the boxes of chicken patties, two boxes of butter then take everything towards
the cooking area the baker is Griffin he started making the biscuit by putting
the biscuit mix inside the mixer and putting butter on 16 pan for the biscuit
to go in the oven is melting the butter for the biscuit and you have Joe Cool
his one of the cooks that’s helping preparing the chicken patties and waiting
on the water to heat up before he put the grits on him and Blood do these
together before then one of them put 9 sticks of butter inside the water that’s
heating up for the grits and salt & pepper in the water and we bring the coffee
and juice from the warehouse either Joe Cool or Blood might do it while Joe
Cool stirring the grits while Blood pour the 50 lb. bag in the pot.
Anthony Cathey
HARD TIME IN PRISON
I’m doing hard time in this prison
I aint never did no hard time
like this I wish I had one
wish it will be I wish I can
get out of this cuz this is
a suffering pain time I’m doing
hard time hard time it will
mess up your Mind hard time
jail bars no stars no cars
just jail bars hard time
in the pen no friends cuz
they will do you in hard
time in the pen no friend
that what you get out of
doing hard time hard time
I don’t never wont to do
hard time in prison hard time
Hard time hard time don’t get
a crime cuz you gone do
hard time hard time
Carvis Johnson
REPETITION IS LIFE
I always go to bed early and get up early. I went to bed around 8:00 p.m. on
December 3, 2023, Sunday night.
After a good night of rest, I get up around 2:30 a.m. I thank Almighty God
for blessing me to see another day. I like that time of morning, it’s very quiet.
It’s many guys on the zone, but most of the guys are asleep, except for a few
guys in front of the television.
So, I consider this my time, in a way I’m alone, because most of the other guys
is sleep and in another world.
I get out of bed and slip on my shower shoes, go into the bathroom, shave,
brush my teeth and wash my face.
Then I go back to my room. Turn to the CBS overnight news with the news
anchor Jerika Duncan. The broadcast was about Israel still bombing the Gaza
Strip. But the most exciting news was about many people being upset, because
the Committee of College Football, chose number 8 rank Alabama and number
7 rank Texas over number 4 rank Florida State. An unbeaten team. Then I turn
the TV to Scripps news on channel 15.1 at 3:11 a.m.
Laura Rutledge was the broadcaster. The news was basically the same as the
CBS. overnight news, they both were talking about Israel and Gaza Strip,
where the bombing was going on. Next, I clean my room. I spend a while in
prayer to the Lord, praying about the many devastating problems we have in
this confused world. Then I flip through the RB again for a moment, and after I
make my bed. I leave C-building on my way to the administration building for
work at 5:30 a.m. Once I get to the building, all of the doors are locked, Major
Bradley fears that one of the spice heads will run through the administration
building saying that someone is trying to take their life.
I have witnessed a few of them run up through that way. I go to the dining
hall to get some breakfast. They had biscuit, chicken sausage, oatmeal, coffee,
and juice. I eat oatmeal because of the fiber. I like oatmeal when I was young
and coming up, Mom made it and added the sugar, the butter, and milk. I still
like it today, in the very same way. The cooks prepare the food pretty good, for
what they have to work with, but some meals, you may want to turn down. I
finish eating and go back to the administration building, and wait for Major
Bradley to show up. She arrives a few minutes later and lets me into the build-
ing. I go get a box of gloves out of the library. Slip the gloves on, make some
mop water, push the chemical cart out, get some red chemical, some green,
and some purple, along with some bleach. Then I started cleaning one of the
four bathrooms, I had to clean the women bathroom, the men bathroom, the
staff bathroom, and the bathroom set aside for me and the other workers that
work around the administration building. The best way to clean up, don’t ever
allow anything to build up. I clean from top to bottom, walls and all, when
you do something, do it right. After cleaning the bathrooms, I mop the floors,
someone else do the sweeping. I dust the window sills, and polish the door
knobs. Then I go outside and sweep out front, and out back of the adminis-
tration building. Around this time, it 7:15 a.m. the shift is starting to change,
officers coming to work, and officers getting off and going home. I say good
morning to the officers, as they come through the administration and I open
the door for all the ladies, and show kindness and respect toward everyone. All
of the officers know me by now. Then I get out of their way, until the major
does her muster and let the officers know where they will be working. After
their muster is over, I go back into the library, do a little reading, and focus
on a little meditation. Just another day, I mostly repeat things over each day
of the week. I like being away from C-building during the day. I find comfort
and peace, when I can get a good moment to myself. It’s about 8 a.m. now,
Monday morning and my day is just getting started. What is that slogan for
the US Army? We do more before 8:00 a.m. than most men do all day. I can
relate to that. It’s just another day.
Leon Johnson
SCARS
A scar is an interesting thing. Some look cool. Some look ugly. But the scars
that affect us the most can’t even be seen. They cut deep, down to the bone,
and often break our hearts. Indeed: sticks and stones can break our bones, but
words can hurt forever. And the pen is mightier than the sword.
My deepest psychological scar occurred February 15, 2018, when a jury of my
peers sentenced me to Death by Lethal Injection. “Don’t worry,” my attorney
said. “It’ll be quick and painless.” He got my vote for Sympathizer of the Year.
I simultaneously experienced my first out of body episode where my astral
presence stepped back and to the left of my physical body and watched myself
nod numbly along as the judge explained my “rights” and the fact that the
death date was to be set for September 24, later that year; four days before my
mom’s birthday.
I was whisked out of the back of the courthouse and rushed straight to my
cell on Death Row in Unit 29, J-Block, Parchman, MS. I was still wearing
my Men’s Warehouse suit that I had on in court, but I did not like the way I
looked — I guarantee it. I remember sitting alone in the back of the transport
van. Watching myself look out the window as they made this special trip for me.
Usually, they only take full loads of inmates from the county jail to the prison,
but I didn’t even get back to the jail to get my property or change clothes.
“Security risk.”
Arriving at Parchman, we were met by a dozen K9 officers, the warden, the
assistant warden, a psych doctor who asked if I was suicidal, a nurse who drew
eight vials of blood, a social worker whom I never saw again, a photographer,
the superintendent who looked bored, and the deputy superintendent who
looked worried.
You would have thought they had Hannibal Lecter. The K9 officers formed a
circle around me — facing me — wielding various weapons and riot shields. And
there I am, shackled hands and feet in a light blue $700 suit. The proverbial
deer in the headlights.
Over six years ago. I still remember it like it was yesterday.
My consciousness rejoined my body when they brought me my red jumpsuit
about an hour after being put in a cell. I had been fielding questions from my
new peers, like “Where you from, 36?” Obviously, I was put in cell 36. “Who’d
you kill? The Governor? And “You want to sell that suit, 36?”
Nobody asked me my name.
Incidentally, I don’t know what became of that suit. My family didn’t get it,
and I never saw it again. But it was a head turner. I remember joking that the
newspaper headline would read: “Man in Nice Suit Sentenced to Death (Did
Not Get Refund).
Solitary confinement has broken many people, but I didn’t let it break me. Or
maybe I was already broken. I never noticed a difference, either way. I’m still
the same positive, helpful, happy go lucky guy that I’ve always been — except
for that one fateful fifteen-minute snapshot episode of drugs and alcohol that
caused all of this unpleasantness.
God knows how I wish I could take it back.
One positive about solitary confinement — If you can get past the boredom,
and if you can get along with yourself — is that it gives you time. Time to think,
time to learn, time to grow and time to heal. I took a Paralegal Certification
course and learned a lot about the law. A quick nearing death date works
wonders for generating a sense of urgency.
In studying the law, I learned that I could possibly find a way to live. I had a
rock-solid case for an appeal.
Not only was my counsel’s assistance completely ineffective, but the judge had
trampled over my rights this way and that.
I wrote an eighteen-point appeal…and won. Woo!
Conviction overturned! I’m free!
No, you’re not. Huh? Nope. Whereas I did not win my freedom,
I did win a new trial.
We gotta do it all over again.
Trials are hard on anybody, whether you are guilty or not. They are emotionally
draining, and they will put a strain on all of your relationships.
My trial created a rift in my family — a permanent scar — that has refused to
heal even six years later. I guess time doesn’t heal all wounds. At least not yet.
Certain of my family members still refuse to talk to each other — let alone be
in the same room with each other — due to the pain and hurt caused during
various testimonies.
I grieve over this falling away — this acrid bitterness which flares up at the mere
mention of a name; at the question, “How is so-and-so doing?”
“Oh, don’t you ask me about her.” The word is spit out like a curse. “And do
you know she ….”
Here we go; I pay for my faux-pas with a ten-minute tirade about how badly
my sister hurt my mother when she said this-and-that on the stand, always with
the uncomfortable undertone of blaming-not-blaming me for the whole thing.
And the worst part of it is the fact that it is my fault. Without the trial, such
exchanges would have never happened.
Being sentenced to death was not the worst thing that happened to me that
day; witnessing the utter destruction of my family was.
The funny thing about winning an appeal is how much it feels like a loss.
It took me four years to get back in court. Another trial, another wound. At
least this time my family was spared; my psyche would take the brunt of
this blow.
“Since you finally beat it,” the District Attorney told me on the eve of the trial,
“we’re taking the Death Penalty off the table. If you’re found guilty, you’ll just
get life. Maybe with parole, maybe not.”
“If I plead guilty, none of my family will have to testify?”
“Right. There would be no trial at all. The judge would sentence you himself.
And that would be that. You’ll go back to prison and keep doing whatever it
is you’ve been doing. We can actually knock this whole thing out before lunch.
If … that’s what you decide to do.”
I did not want to put my family or the victim’s family through another ardu-
ous, heartbreaking trial — plus, the possibility of getting Life with Parole was
very appealing.
So, I plead guilty. A self-inflicted wound to spare two families from unnecessary
pain and suffering.
“You will be remanded to the custody of MDOC until the time of your death,”
the Judge said.
Life without parole. Ouch!
Cue my second ever out of body experience.
Despite it being the second worse day of my life, something positive did come
out of it for which I will forever be grateful: I was finally allowed to apologize
to the victim’s family, which I did, from the bottom of my heart.
There is no way to be certain, but I feel that they appreciated my apology. More
importantly, I feel that they accepted it.
It has now been eleven years since the crime, and, surely the pain will last
forever — for all involved. My hope is that the victim’s family has been able to
recover from the initial shock and subsequent anger that has been so under-
standably felt and find a semblance of peace in this life.
I know how hard my incarceration has been on my mother; she used to break
down and cry quite often. I’m her baby. And I can’t even imagine how the
victim’s mother has been able to cope with the untimely, unfair loss of her baby.
I hope my apology helped. It was sincere and heartfelt.
My trials and tribulations have certainly been painful, and have left deep
psychological scars which have shaped who I am today. As have the years I’ve
spent in prison, which have indeed left me with more physical scars than I
came in with.
The best thing I can think to do with all of these scars — psychological and
physical — is to learn to live with them; embrace them; accept them for what
they are: Proof that I am human.
Steve Wilbanks
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Tim Fitts is a short story writer and photographer. His work has been published in the New England Review, Granta, Shenandoah, Boulevard, Fugue, and the Baltimore Review, among others. His photographs have been shown in South Korea and the United States, most notably the Thomas Deans Gallery in Atlanta. His photographic works often combine color transparencies, as well as transparencies with black and white film.
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