Poems Of Prison の小説・ストーリー

"How many people?" "Hundreds over the past decade. Maybe thousands. The official records have been altered, but I've been keeping my own count." Isabella's face was pale in the moonlight. "The prisoners in the dungeons right now? Three of them are teenagers whose only crime was writing poetry that suggested wolves could be governed through wisdom rather than fear." "Poetry." Ferdinand's voice was hollow with horror. "He's going to make me execute teenagers for writing poetry." "He's going to make you execute anyone who represents the possibility of alternative leadership. Anyone who might inspire the people to believe they deserve better than fear and oppression."

A deafening boom ripped through the underground kingdom. The golden eyes vanished beneath a storm of silver light. The chains wrapped around something enormous. Something beyond imagination. The city trembled. The jailer stood motionless. Holding. Containing. Enduring. Then came a sound I never wanted to hear. A snap. One chain broke. The noise echoed like a thunderclap. Then another chain shattered. And another. And another. The prison was failing. The jailer's light brightened desperately. More chains appeared. Thousands more.

" The day I was sentenced, Zoey publicly announced her support for Ronald as the heir to the Goldman family. From that moment on, I had nothing left. For three years in prison, I slept beside the toilets. They shoved my head into toilet water and forced me to drink it. The inmates beat me, humiliated me, treated me worse than an animal. To survive, I fought my way through with my fists. The only thing keeping me alive was the hope that one day I could leave prison and buy back my parents' old mansion. The day I got out, I hid myself in an underground fighting ring like a rat crawling out of the gutter, living numbingly from match to match. That one million dollars would have brought me one s

Every sound carried meaning. The rustling leaves. The distant cries of wolves. The snapping of old branches beneath wandering animals. Nothing escaped my attention. It was amusing, in a way. For months I had lived inside a prison cell, surrounded by walls and guarded by soldiers who believed chains could break a man. Now I was free, yet I remained hidden inside another prison of my own choosing. Only this prison had no bars. It had secrets instead. People often mistook waiting for weakness. That had always been their greatest mistake.

"We are ready to get out of this disgusting place." The news hit them all at once; they didn't expect that kind of information. The dream of someday getting out of prison was one that all three teenagers shared, life was hard behind the thick bars, and it was even harder if you were there unfairly. The three boys could only imagine five percent of what the world was like and the freedom of living in it. "It's impossible to get out of here, Jack," Annette's dry voice brought everyone back to reality. "It's not," he affirmed "this time, it's going to work," and he assured with a slight smile.

All he could see was darkness consuming him little by little, making him feel as if he was slowly being dragged down into hell itself. The dungeon cells, like cages of despair, lined the corridor. Grotesque stains of blood and filth adorned the walls, testament to the torment and suffering endured by those who had been imprisoned within. The wails of the forgotten souls haunted the atmosphere, a haunting chorus that seeped into the prisoner's very soul. Occasionally, as he was dragged past the cells, bony, emaciated figures reached out with skeletal hands, their hollow eyes pleading for mercy or a shred of compassion. Their frail forms were but shadows of their former selves, stripped of dig

It beat, brewed, and spewed up the way-sides, through the brothels that neared the prisons to give it a mystical omening poison and finally landed in the openings, oppressing the inmates, giving them all a farewell taste of the world yonder. Each four walls held an offender and then another four walls. But the feeling they got here was enough to rob them of sleep all through the night. They would watch the night gaining stars and the moon setting above the clouds and in another moment the sun would rise from the horizon, and it was all too quick an experience that life absorbed so much meaning. The fear of death kept them alive. The fear of knowing exactly the moment of death, as if looking

I AM NOT SURE that you can hear me. I am not sure if you are still near to me, somewhere in the dark. I am not even sure that you are still alive. Last night, I heard you sobbing. The night before, I heard you scream when they came for you. Perhaps it was your screams, later on, that were punctuated by my own. Perhaps you cannot hear me, perhaps you will not comprehend the words that I am using. Perhaps you are not there at all. Still, I will continue to shout out my confession, to you and to the One God, as long as my voice persists. Would that I could write, but there is no vellum, no ink, no light. My arms are chained to the prison wall, spread above me. It is futile, futile. But, perhaps

S‍er⁠a⁠ Winters Som​etimes​ the worst​ prison isn't the one that h‍o​lds‌ y‌ou​r body. It's the one that makes you‌ want to stay​. ‌ I didn't l‍eave the libr​ary.

I had heard plenty of stories from incarcerated men, and I tell you that no words can describe the horrors that men and women face and commit within the walls of prisons. My heart pounded so fast that I thought it was going to explode, I had never felt so vulnerable and lost in my life. In the streets, when you return from prison, it adds to your cred, but I tell you, there isn't a single thing, not even one that is glorious about it. I walked through the gates of Kiree Federal Prison, everything making my hair stand, from the looks on the warder's faces to the shouts and screaming of prisoners, most of them looking like they crawled out of a very bad dream. The handcuffs made me so uncomfor