Prisoners Poems Novels & Stories

I didn't want to act as if I don't know him while all I wanted to do was punch him on the face. I saw prisoners being led out. But they were free. Then I realised that we were now inside trapped just as them. So the freedom is not real just an illusion. I watched a few of them giving us lavasious looks as they pass by. But no one dared to touch us. That indeed spoke the reigning terror on these people. They were worst of criminals yet they were tame as house cats. I was so occupied on watching everyone that I bumped into someone. I watched him staring at me with anger burning. I gathered the books fallen down urgently. He was silent but those eyes spoke volume.

They had attacked my pack, and they would pay for their crimes. As I approached the end of the row, I finally found the four prisoners that had been caught. They were huddled together in the corner, their eyes wide with fear as they saw me approach. I stood in front of their cell, looking them over one by one. They were filthy and unkempt, with matted hair and torn clothing. I could feel their fear and desperation as I stood in front of them, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. They had brought this upon themselves, and they would pay the price for their actions.

But of course, I nodded absent-mindedly, thinking of a question to ask next, before the opportunity passes. "There were other prisoners in the yard. I heard their grunts. Won't they work too?" I asked, almost envying the non-working inhabitants of the prison yard. "They are dangerous, so, they can't be let out." He replied, turning at a point, a curvature leading to another straight grassy path. "Dangerous?" I muttered to myself, unconsciously. "Yes, dangerous. Very deadly. They committed grave crimes against the pack. Some are rogues. Some are vampires. There's a witch there too." He answered, startling me. I had forgotten that his wolf hearing was too keen and sharpened.

Everything. As good as my guesses were, I passed the first prison and the prisoner shook on the chains violently amidst begging me to save him. They all looked ill and underfed or not fed at all because who in the pack would be bringing food to these people . I wanted to have pity on them but even in my pack—my father's pack actually, because I have a new pack now— prisoners that were left to this kind of suffering must have committed grievous and unforgivable offenses. The sight that made my belly swell and almost made me pass out on the spot was when I saw a prisoner feasting on a fellow prisoner.

His body ached with the wounds of battle, but it was the ache in his heart that weighed him down the most. As he surveyed the dim and damp surroundings, he saw the fear etched on the faces of his fellow prisoners. Their eyes held stories of shattered dreams and broken spirits. The flickering torches cast eerie shadows on the cold stone walls, creating an ominous atmosphere that seemed to reflect Lucas's own sense of foreboding. Amidst the suffocating darkness, a voice shattered the silence like a desperate plea for salvation. "I didn't poison her!" The words hung heavy in the air, infused with the raw emotion of desperation and sorrow.

Jonah and Alyssa exclaimed in unison, "A prisoner in an orange-colored uniform?" "In the Fifth Prison, orange-colored prisoner uniforms are meant for felons with mental illnesses. They are distinguished from other prisoners by the colors of their uniforms." Sean blinked. "That prisoner knelt before Steven and clung onto his legs as he bawled his eyes out. He claimed that he wasn't mentally ill and that he had not murdered anyone either. He asked Steven to help him with his appeal."

The features constantly shifted. Changing every second. Young. Old. Male. Female. Human. Something else. As though no single appearance could contain it. The jailer looked down toward us. Directly at us. And spoke. Not aloud. Inside our minds. Find the First Chain. I froze. The survivors froze. Even Renn stopped breathing. The words carried impossible weight. The prison is broken. Images flooded my mind. Ancient cities burning. Mountains shattered. Oceans boiling. Entire civilizations erased.

"Can I talk to them? With you and Katherine there? Please?" Against my better judgment, I agreed. The twelve prisoners were held in secure rooms in the basement. They looked terrible. Injured, exhausted, their faces showing the defeat of true believers whose faith had been shattered. The oldest, a man perhaps fifty with burns covering half his face, spoke first when Luna entered with Katherine and me.

Mira pov The night was silent, yet I couldn’t find peace. I rolled onto my side, then onto my back, then onto my stomach, but sleep refused to come. My mind was a battlefield of thoughts, conflicting and troubling, clashing against one another. The dead prisoners haunted me. Their lifeless eyes, their untouched bodies, their inexplicable deaths. “How were they even killed?” Nothing made sense. The prisoners had no wounds, no signs of struggle, no poison detected in their bodies. It was as if something had just… taken their lives without a trace.

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