A Short Story

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)

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.

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

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…

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.”

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

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.

"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.

Arken chuckled softly as he ghosted his fingertips across her trembling forearms. “My gods, you’re so strong ...” he purred, and the huskiness in his voice almost made her gag.

“What do we have to do Austin? What’s this business all about? I wanna court Ms. Ellis and your interrupting me. Some friend you are. Can’t even let an Ol’ man have some fun.” Jess said. “We do have business Jess. If you’ll remember, last night we had a hell of a camp fire and somebody’s gonna be asken’ where the Wilson brother’s bodies are. We’re gonna have a talk with the Sheriff. Then we’re gonna give our ladies some special treatment.” “Oh, now that’s different. I knew you liked Lena.” Jess said as he slapped Austin’s shoulder. “I don’t and what do you mean like Lena? Besides those aren’t the ladies I’m speaking of. I mean Madame and Twighlight. Remember?” “Oh yeah, of course. I knew that.” Jess said. Then mumbling to

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

Nikki’s foot kicked the railing to the walk-in clinic. One hour of waiting for a spot and they still made her family from the north wait.

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.

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.