A Short Story

Wozencraft is able to wrap up her essay and explain a tradition that has been set by those who are imprisoned and gives them a farewell gift. She also gives insight to the superstitious ending that discusses why one should never leave their prison shoes behind. Within the essay, the dominant rhetorical strategy that the author uses in the essay accomplishes her purpose. The dominant strategy that encompasses the essay is a clockwise tour and that really accomplishes the author’s purpose of showing readers the inside of a prison and how the taxpayers’ money is going down the drain due to the prison system.

The “prisoners” searched,  stripped, and shaved and issued a uniform, ID number and escorted to their cell by the “guards”. The “guards” were not given any instructions or guideline for the way they were going to treat the “prisoners”. The “guards” were dressed in uniform, wore a whistle and carried a

The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.

Prisoners were taken from their homes, blindfolded and taken to the mock prison, forced to have a strip search done, and were given uniform. This was the first stage of stripping their individuality. The second step was referring to them by their designated number instead of by their name. Guards were fitted

The prisoners were instructed by the guards to chant degrading things about a prisoner who had a breakdown and had to leave. The prisoner began to cry, hearing "Prisoner #819 is a bad prisoner. Because of what Prisoner #819 did, my cell is a mess, Mr. Correctional Officer,” drifting through the rooms. (McLeod, Saul, p. 24-25)

The iron halls were silent, even the harsh bootsteps of the condemmed man didn't shatter the uneasy silence, the grim face. Ussally shielded by the insincire smile of the mask he always wore, the pericing Gold Eyes the only sign of a determined soul, with the rest of his face being henpecked by the smallest scars, slashed across his chin like a small medal of honor and the frown above them's sincerty incredibly clear, one of the armoed guards idly musing to himself that he'd never seen the infamous Tiburón look nervous until now. Throwing open the heavy metal door, him and his fellow guard almost instantly threw the sinewy "revolutionary" into the cold integoration room. Manging to catch the ground almost instantly, Tiburón turned around with

I retreat into myself in an attempt to block out the cruel sounds of the prison morning. The faint barking of rabid guard dogs seem to echo through the complex, ricocheting off of any surface like the lost souls of convicts. And here I lie amongst them. The dogs aren’t the only things that bark around here: the vicious snaps of the heartless wardens strike fear through the best of us. Occasional gang taunts reverberate down the vast lonely halls. But these ones that are all talk, they’re easy. Not a problem. When blood is spilled, it happens from out of nowhere. Always for a reason.

From between the bars over the window I glared at the back of the guard’s head before the first door shut. Then came the slam and clicking of the second and third doors- and the sound of his shoes tapping the ground faded as I was left in solitary confinement. The cold air blowing in bit my face and arms; I shivered. There’s nothing I hate more than feeling weak- I wish I’d have remembered that before kicking my inmate in the face. It was pretty funny, though…

Nigel Robertson raised his eyebrows, fiddled with his moustache and glanced at the newcomer in a meticulous, bewildered sort of manner. He thought this prisoner was not like the others — the man looked so innocent. His cheeks were like fresh, sticky, stretchy marshmallows, slightly toasted and his blonde hair stuck out in bizarre tufts dotted with dirt, mud and the smell of rose petals. Still growing up in his mother 's arms perhaps? Not a man yet at least. Mr Robertson was an observant, old man, who has spent 40 years of his life looking at prisoners, guarding them, disgusted by them. His blue eyes peered above his small, gold-rimmed glasses which rested carefully

While Booker’s reaction was expected, the level of hurt shining from his eyes perplexed Fuller, and folding his arms across his chest, he studied the young officer with interest. “You seem surprised.”

"Stop what, I'm not touching ya." Carlos laughed and pressed his hips into her ass, allowing the girl to feel the thick bulge of his erection through the fabric of his jeans. "Not yet. Ya really think Jimmy's not gonna let us fuck you, you don't know Jimmy, and I can't wait to bury my cock in that tight, little cunt of yours." Keeping his voice low enough to be inaudible to the others, the Hispanic tightened his grip on the girl and slid one hand up to briefly squeeze a breast as his gaze slid to his companions. First, to Jimmy, to ensure he hadn't noticed his little infraction with Alyssa, then to Duane.

Bucky had begun his fifth circuit of their tiny living room when he heard the tell-tale thump of the busted step leading to their floor: the board was near-rotted underneath the worn carpet and always slid out a bit and back in each time you stepped on it.

Two months later on a Saturday morning, Charlie threw a dish rag over her shoulder and answered the knock at her door.

Another pocket full of change added to the jar after a day of work. Every penny, nickel, dime, and quarter has made into that jar for years. First he wanted a gun, for the annual hunting trip with his brother. Then he wanted a fancy saw to build some bookshelves. So Jim dropped the coins in the jar, and once it was full he counted, and recounted before rolling the change and making a trip to the bank. But now that he had his gun and his saw, Jim had his eyes set on a bigger toy.

It was a Friday, and I was in last period eagerly aching to go home for 2 days of absolute peace. All of a sudden, my heart started beating faster, faster, and faster. The room started to feel blistering hot and everything got darker. I was feeling agitated. Being a typical 17 year old, never able to take anything seriously, I decided to take a couple sips of water and carried on with the day, completely averting the issue.