“So Matt, have you decided," David - my favorite guard - started a bit pensively, "what you want your special meal to be?"

I chuckle to how even something like a ‘last meal’ could have become PC'ed. I have known what I wanted for my last meal for weeks, but only three people have ever been able to make it the magical way, only two of those are still alive, and I do not have the heart to ask either of them to do so or ask the warden for the special request of allowing my wife or my sister in the kitchens to do so. Still, my mouth waters at the thought of it and the part of me that weeps that I will never have it again almost tells David what it is. Almost. Instead, I sigh in resignation and tell him, "A glass of orange juice, to be followed by pancakes, sausage, bacon, and a chocolate malt. Tell the cooks not to go too skimpy on the malt or it might ruin the rest of the evening."

David laughed at the dark humor, "So I guess you are not worried about a spike in your blood sugar?"

I laugh mirthlessly, "My diabetes will be the last thing on my mind tonight, me thinks." I watch David ponder what he wants to say next, he seems to be fighting a thought. "Jesus H! David, just spit it out. If your God does exist, He knows I wonʼt be around here tomorrow for you to ask."

David swallows and spits out, "For what it is worth Matt, for most of your time here, I didnʼt believe you did it…and…thank you for the help with some of my classes."

"Most of the time?" I chuckle, "I guess that is something."

"You are just not…after knowing you all of these years, it is hard to believe…"

I cut him off, this conversation is a hell of a lot harder then I thought it would be. "I do appreciate it, David. And you are welcome. Just don't letʼthe lessons go to waste now, ok? You can do great things. For what it is worth, I will miss you. Thanks for the friendship, under the circumstances." I always had a soft spot for David. He is a good kid trying to make his life a little better everyday. He is a fucking saint for putting up with the monsters in this play and still stay sane. Honestly, he is one of the reasons I probably didn't tryʼto off myself years ago when the hell of this place was becoming too much.

When the silence grew to great and there really wasn't mucʼ else to say, David simply held out his hand, I took it and shook it in kind. "I'll get your request over to the kitchen right away."

"Thanks, David, please, take care of yourself and that lovely family of yours."

I watch him leave, wishing he was just starting his shift instead of ending it. I wish I got to know David on the outside. It is one of my few regrets. Still, I got to know him, and that is something.

~~~

"Mr. Devereux, come on, you have visitors."

Where David was a nice guy, a stranger in a strange land, as far as a prison guard could go, Billy Jones was right at home here. He had a chip on his shoulder, and if someone was here, that meant he deserved to be here, no question. He seemed almost happy that today was going to be the last day he had to see my face. Personally, I am thrilled that today is the last day I have to see his.

My wife is waiting to see me, which is no surprise. My throat catches to seeing my oldest daughter, Chelsea, with her though. God, she is almost a woman now, I think to myself. My throat catches as I think of all of the time I missed this child grow up without me. I silently curse fate for damning me to this place where I do not belong and missing so much; making my wife have to shoulder it all on her own.

Chelsea speaks first, through watery eyes, "Bev wanted to come, papa, but couldn't stoʼ crying." Chelsea spoke the words as if she felt it was her fault. My heart breaks again.''

"Let her know I completely understand and it is ok." I look at her just as I give my wife a questioning look. She shakes her head a silent no. So I was never going to see my son again. He still believed that somehow his father committed this crime. I regret that I never succeeded in lifting his heart of that burden of hatred. Then again, I look at my wife and daughter and don't feeʼ the burden they carry believing my story is any lighter.

The conversation between the three of us was random and almost ethereal. It's harʼ to tuck any of it deep away into my heart. They are all words that really do not matter. Everything worth saying cannot be said, so will fill our precious seconds with nonsense. Still, I get to see two of the most important people in my life one last time and that is something.

I almost ask my wife if she will ever teach the girls how to make my favorite meal, but I decide I do not want to know the answer. Either answer will break my heart to know.

Chelsea breaks the rules and gives me a hug, forcing Billy to intervene and pull her away in a fit. It was the best hug of my life, even the bittersweet ending of seeing Billy drag her off.

"I will be there tonight," my wife says as I am still watching Chelsea being escorted out.

"No. This needs to be the last time. Please, I need to this to be the last way you remember me. Not tonight."

She lifts her hand as if to touch my face, "My love, the last way I will remember you will always be the picnic before the day when our lives ended. All of this," she waves her hand, "has been a nightmare not worth remembering. You will not be alone tonight. I will not have it!"

I just nod. I do not want her there, but I do not want our last conversation to end in a fight. I think of all of the fights we didn't havʼ because of my incarceration and actually mourn them, strangely enough.

We part as we always have after a visit. With a look of longing and not a word of goodbye. I weep after they leave, regretting that I will never know the feel of my wife in my arms again yet whisper a word of thanks to a God I don't belʼeve in for letting me hug one of my children one last time.

~~~

"How are the pancakes?" the warden asks with a level of sincerity that seems out of place here. Even though I know his name, I could never look at this man as anything but ‘the warden’. He was a nice enough guy, yet he was serious about his job and thus balancing how he treated any inmate.

"Fantastic!" I lie. They are good, but I would rather be eating other wonders. I think I picked pancakes because they are hard to screw up. That and an almost forgotten childhood memory where I was allowed to have pancakes for dinner WITH a chocolate malt. Up until that point in my life, that was my favorite meal.

"Good, good!" He takes another bite of pancakes himself. He was a syrup junkie by the way he drowned his. "Are there any other small requests you have David?"

"I do have one letter for you to deliver, to Detective Jones, if you would be so kind."

"I can do that. I will give it to her personally. Do you want me to give it to her right away, or after a bit of time?"

"You can give it to her whenever it is convenient."

I take my last bite, and finish it off with my last slurp of malt. The cook's didʼ't skiʼp. The pancakes were good, but the malt was perhaps the best I've ever had. A small, simple pleasure.

"OK David. Happy to do it for you. For what it is worth, I want to thank you for never causing any trouble under my watch. It is sad how few of you there are."

"Very welcome. I've never been a big fan of causing trouble. Pretty boring that way," I end the statement with just a hint of venom. I gave up long ago trying to convince the warden of my innocence. He just looked at me solemnly then, squeezed my shoulder, and nodded.

"God bless you son. I hope your life after is kinder than the one you have had here."

I don't recʼll him leaving as my thoughts hovered on his parting words.

~~~

"So, is there anything you want me to tell God for you?" Father fred chuckled, knowing I still don't belʼeve in his God. Have to give the man points for persistence though. Although, honestly, from the first time meeting him, he always felt I was innocent. I have put up with the priest as much for that as anything. He was impossible not to like and usually could work a smile out of me.

"If I were to tell you, I could just tell Him directly, couldn't I?"ʼI respond back, a bit more than flippantly.

"Oh, you can whenever you want to. It is never too late to try. He is good that way."

"And you know this just out of pure faith."

"No, David," he says suddenly very serious, "I know this because time and again I have seen His touch on the world. For me, it is not just a blind faith."

"Honestly Father, at this point I do not have much time left and would rather spend it talking to a friend that I know will answer back. I trust that you have put in a good word for me all this time."

He nods, "I have, and will continue to do so. Until my last breath."

"Hate to tell you Father, my last breath is the odds on favorite between you and I."

He laughs in such a jovial way, I am almost offended, "Oh, David. I can pray for you long after you leave this world. If you think that is silly, you have a family that I will still need to pray for too."

His last words touch me more than I care to admit. At least someone will look after them in some way, if even if only on a spiritual level.

"David," he continues, "I want to thank you."

"Thank me? What do you have to thank me for?"

"For your faith, that and for humoring me all of these years."

"Father, I think we both know I don't havʼ faith, isn't thaʼ the point of your visits?"

"Oh, you have faith. You might not believe in God how I do, but you live His will better than most of my congregation. Sometimes, I dare say, even better than I do. I have learned a lot about faith in no small part because of you. In that, my friend, I do thank you. You have save a lot of souls."

I laugh, "I have."

"You have. Because, in small and large ways you helped me save my own."

I look at him speechlessly.

"David, you are a good man that was put into a terrible place, accused of even a more terrible crime. Life has not been fair to you. Yet, you have lived the life you were dealt fairly."

"Father, can I ask you a question?"

He answers it without my need to ask it, "David. I just know. Every fiber of my being just knows you are innocent just as every fiber knows God exists. Yes, I looked over all of the evidence that I had access to, but only for validation of what I already know."

"Well, thank you for believing me. And for being my friend."

Father Fred stands when I do, hugs me and responds heartfully, "Until we meet again, my friend. I actually have a small hope that you'll be the one to show me around heaven after my last breath. I'll find it quite rewarding to tell you, ‘told you so’."

I laugh and cry, "Are you equally sure I am bound toward your heaven?"

He cries and laughs, "Yes, because you've already lived as an angel in hell."

I couldn't argʼe with that, at least the ‘lived in hell’ part.

~~~

I hate being strapped to the bed, but I try not to show it. When I think of the remainder of my life like an hourglass, I can almost now count how many grains of sand are at the top.

I thought I would be more afraid. I am not. I am ready to leave this prison behind. Ready to be worm food or to laugh on the off chance Father Fred is correct and I get to cross some pearly gate soon.

I look out into the room and I am a bit surprised at the faces I see behind the glass. My wife, Father Fred, and David are all there, all with tears. Billy is even there and seems sad, perhaps I misjudged him a bit.

I am a bit sad not to see Detective Jones. She always believed I was wrongly accused. That her gut just disagreed with the way the evidence lined up.

There are a lot of faces I do not recognize, but there are a few more that I do. The parents and siblings of the girl that was killed. I look at the father briefly and wish he saw me with my own daughters just once before his was killed. Perhaps he would know then I would have never committed the crime I was accused of. Such dreams are folly. Still, I hate feeling the hate of their eyes. Hate feeling that look of near-triumph that their vengeance will finally be tasted. I hate the taste of bile in my throat knowing the vengeance they will get will be an empty lie but they will never know it.

I feel the warden's hanʼ squeeze my shoulder, "Any last words son? Now is the time for simple regrets and deep confessions still yet confessed."

At first I think I will say nothing, but the words poor out,

"I love my wife," and I look deep in her eyes, trying to fill it with everything worthwhile that we have shared. I think about that magic picnic, when life was still ours. I think of the last time she made my favorite meal and making love to her in the kitchen, because the kids were away at my folks for the weekend.

"I thank my few friends for their kindness, " and look toward David and Father Fred.

"I wish I had more time with my kids, that they got to have a father…" I watch Mr. Johnson tense, every fiber of his being wanting to cut off my words. Perhaps his throat catches. I know mine suddenly does.

I think perhaps I should end while I am ahead. I know I should hold my tongue. Yet, I cannot so I say what I have wanted to say for years, "I wish sir, "I stare right at Mr. Johnson now, "that you got to love your daughter everyday up through this day. I do regret what has befallen you and your family and I forgive you for believing I was who took her from you. If the day ever comes when the true killer is found, I forgive you your hate of me. I cannot say that if the roles were reversed I would not feel the same."

I see his rage. If the glass did not separate us, I am sure he would try to kill me himself. I regret saying the words, knowing they would bring him and his family no comfort, but I do not say them for the people they are now, but rather, if justice is ever found in the future, that these poor people that have already lost so much, will not regret watching an innocent man put to death.

"It's timʼ," the warden cut in. I look upon my loved ones one last time before I turn my head and close my eyes. I hold that vision in my head along with my last happy memory with my kids as their perfect dad.

I feel a chill go through my arm. I feel the sleep start to take me. In a panic, I open my eyes, but my vision is already too foggy and heavy.

I fight sleep but sleep wins. I drift to dream of a picnic. I dream of making love to my wife in the kitchen, well beyond such a time when such an act was a norm. I dream of a priest. A prayer enters my thoughts. "If You exist, please watch over my family better than you watched over me."

It is my last memory.

~~~

I open my eyes to blinding white and cries of joy. Well, dammit, the Priest was right was my first thought. I feel light and floaty and happy as I've ever been. I must be dead.

As I come to I know that is not the case. I am in a room. My wife and all three kids are crying, Father Fred is there with his broad smile along with the tears.

"What…" is all I can get out.

"She found him, Matt! Detective Jones found the real killer and he has already confessed!”

All I can do is smile, thinking of a long-ago forgotten prayer, finally answered and thinking I might be owing a certain priest I know a drink or three.

Bright light,

Shooting stars,

And hot gasses;

These all exist there.

Swirling and colliding,

Together they sing

A story of time

And of Space.

Young black female

American college student

Madly in love

Full time underpaid worker

Battling mental illness

Blunt, outspoken, observer

Writer

"She's a slut"

"I heard she was pregnant"

"I heard that too, only, I thought she aborted it"

"She's such a whore"

"I heard she slept with the whole football team"

"Maybe that's why she became a cheerleader"

We hear this all the time.

The funny part about this one?

The girl they are talking about....

She's a virgin

Her ex spread these rumors

Because she 

WOULDN'T

Sleep with him

Her parents found out about the rumors

They disowned her

She lost all of her friends

No one wants to be friends with the pregnant slut

Colleges no longer want her

They don't even care about her 3.7 GPA

The rumors

They ruined her life

And she's only 17

So think before you speak...

And feel before you hurt...

You don't know how powerful your words can be....

I was standing in front of a warming pot

Cutting carrots, celery, onions on a red wood round

I was a passenger, somewhere dozing off, between 60

And 5 miles, the time I had walked

Immersing only when liquid cools off

Even before that I was younger, ripe eyes, golden hair

I don't remember but I think I may have been pretty

I feigned I was deaf one time, racing home

I swung wildly an umbrella and chorused a soprano note

So far all veggies are in the correct cooking order

Around that time I feared old milk, moldy bread, dishwater

I never swore, swallowed gum, or faked a smile

I think I was wearing a parrot shirt, red shorts, or some other red jumper

I stopped crossing empty fields, selling candy door to door, riding my bike

After the onions, celery, and carrots were hot

I was deciphering between who-dun-it and urban legends

Then I pressed pause, watching the noodles, again overcook

Looking at how the past and the present borrow from each other

Time moving forward, time lapping

Filling in all the illusional gaps wishing I could be up in the sky

Later that night, I found Floppy bear

Years after what was once a stuffed animal wall

But nowadays I think, how it would be nice, to tip toe back

Just one step, right over the arrow, quiet step back

Tennis players would be across the street, the car

Needing directions would have avoided me

Veggies and noodles

Al dente

Clburdett,  2016 

A stream of blood. Trees laid bare to the torrent of rain. Thunder claps above. Lightning shows the remains of some monster out creature. Crows were already feasting on its multitude of eyes. The creature's viscera had been pulled out of the abdominal cavity. Long, deep gashes revealed intricate musculature and bone. The fur was blackened even darker than imagined. Some of its teeth were missing, but the rest glistened in the lightning. Its eyes were already glazed over, some were pure white orbs. A person would later come to collect the remains of the poor beast. It had been hunted for its prized parts. White eyes for the magical folk. Sharp fangs for warriors. Fur for arctic conditions. Blood for necromancers. Bones for structures and carvings. Flesh for the carrion eaters. Viscera for bait. And claws for the hell hounds that would hunt more of its kind and other monsters.

"A salad? Really? You can have anything in the world you want for your final meal and you chose a salad?" the guard asked me incredulously.

I nodded silently as he set it down in front of me. Shaking his head, he left me and my salad alone. Slowly, I took a small bite. My mind struggled between the past and the future. Well, what little future was left anyway. Finally, it decided to reminisce about the past. What if that whole "your entire life flashes in front of you before you die" thing doesn't exist? I could do it myself -at least the major events.

Most people would envy the path my life took. I was an internationally famous supermodel after all. However, like everything else, it came with a price. A college roommate of mine was a model. Just local -nothing too high-scale. She didn't have a car, so I would often drop her off and pick her up at shoots. Because of my freakishly high cheekbones and naturally indigo eyes, the photographers and make-up artists began to take notice. With a little dieting, I could be a very successful model, they assured me.

They were right. Decreasing my food intake and increasing my workout time and suddenly I could call myself a model. 

A few of my pictures made it to the eyes of some prominent New York agencies who contacted me. They were interested in trying me out, but their weight requirements were even stricter. No matter how little I ate and how much I exercised, that level couldn't be achieved. That's when I turned to some dieting pills a friend hesitantly recommended. Popping a few in the morning and, eventually, a few more in the afternoon did the trick. Suddenly, I wasn't just a model. I was a very successful one who could make a living off of her work.

There was an avalanche effect. The more shoots I did, the more people became interested, the skinnier I would be required to become, the more pills I would consume. Sometimes it felt like I was made of pills. Always adventurous, I started to experiment with other kinds -not all of which were legal. But, it was my life, and I would do what I wanted with it. It was nobody else's business what I did.

Until it started to affect somebody else's life. In between shoots one day I checked my phone and saw some messages from my old roommate. Her modeling career had never gone as well as mine, but she hadn't given up. She begged for some advice on how to get to the next level. We met up and I gave her some of my diet pills -illegal ones.

People's body's react differently to things. She died. When people found out it was because of illegal "drugs" I gave her, I was charged with her death. My sentence was execution. But I didn't kill her. The industry did.

There are going to be reporters at my execution soon. I'm sure they'll take pictures. I'm not going to eat the whole salad -I want look good for the cameras. I hope that my entire life does flash in front of my eyes. I'll look amazing in the flashes.