War Prisoner Novels & Stories

Suddenly, the two warriors holding my arms heaved deeply with a slightly happy countenance on their faces as we continued to approach the thick groans and voices of men. My brow furrowed in confusion and I couldn't help but voice out. “What are those voices?” I asked one one in particular. Meanwhile, I couldn't hide how flushed my face was due to the fear. “Captured prisoners” Bernard chipped, almost immediately. “They are mostly captives from wars and rogues who were captured wandering around the borders” Does that mean we've arrived at the prison? Wolf Country hell.

My life took a huge turn. I was no longer Victoria the baker. I was Arianna Bocelli, Alejandro Amato’s prisoner. “Let me go.” I dug my feet into the ground as Capello pulled me along, ropes digging into my skin. I’d recovered from my momentary shock and become dangerously stupid as I continued to yell at men who wouldn’t bat an eyelash as they sent me to the world beyond.

After a silence that felt like it lasted forever, he finally confessed. “I guess that in layman’s terms,” he explained, his eyes finally meeting mine again. “She’s a prisoner of war!” Erm... “WHAT?!”

He was strapped back on the chair by the Defector-guards. Known for his testosterone excess, the former prison warden would rather spend his final minutes thinking about his caring wife and their three lovely children. As far as he knew they’re all safe from a relative’s hideout. He told the love of his life what she needed to hear as he prepared for the day he’d be caught. He was among the prized catch by the victors of the civil war. That’s largely because of his savagery as a shooting guard at Camp Andrea where he regularly butchered innocent men, women, and children; their bodies overused from hard labor and crippled by starvation.

Prisoner two-zero-zero-one ...... "As long as you're here, you are no Declan Oliver, you would be referred as Prisoner two-zero-zero-one. Do you understand?" I ignored the question, continuing my descent to a place I would then start to call home for the time being. Getting deep in thoughts, the officer stopped abruptly, making my forehead connect to his rough and musky smelling uniform. "Are you listening to me kid? When I ask you something, you answer, got it?" Pitch raised, he asked without turning his back.

Sergeant Lionel Greaves, once a proud Royal Guard, sat on a wooden crate, his fingers trembling as he gripped a rationed loaf of bread. Across from him, Corporal Darius, a former conscripted soldier, ran a hand down his weary face. "It’s over," Lionel whispered. "Aeternum could have killed us all," Darius muttered, shaking his head. "But they didn’t." The prisoners of war had been spared execution, sentenced instead to rebuilding their city—a fate far kinder than what their own noble lords would have given them.

Lira's POV The general and I stared at each other while I searched for the right words to say. The cages around us were no longer quiet. Some of the prisoners had noticed me, and a few of them began to make noise. It was easy to tell which ones had lost their minds. I knew the kind of people kept down here. Those with broken minds. Those accused of treason. Those taken as spoils of war who refused to join the Blackthornes. The stubborn ones. The forgotten ones.

Secured and in their grasps, the Officers pat me down – more like groped me- before dragging me to the back of a transport van alone and left in the dark with my fate unknown. ♔ That is how I become prisoner number five-zero-five-four. There was no trial, no Judge to decide my fate. To the law, I am an unwed fertile female in need of correcting. I needed a strict hand to guide me in becoming a proper female for society. With a sigh, I find that I am last to line up with the other and take a chance to look at the girls in the corridor. Many are like me, here for petty theft or burglary hoping to make a living and find some form of escape from the hell called the Capitol Slums. After our meal,

A circle at the center of the cross showed sailboats in the water. I picked up the last medal: the prisoner of war medal. I was held captive for six months, two weeks, five days, thirteen hours, and fifty-three minutes. All that time was represented by a bronze medallion with an American bald eagle shown with its wings opened. Around the eagle were barbed wire and bayonet points. That meant the United States in general and the individual prisoner of war. The eagle is said to be standing "with pride and dignity, continually on the alert for the opportunity to seize hold of beloved freedom." Inscribed on the back was: "AWARDED TO ADAM CARTER FOR HONORABLE SERVICE WHILE A PRISONER OF WAR" It wa