You run, and you run, and you run but the glass keeps blocking you from that beautiful world outside. Torture, you think. They keep you in here like some kind of animal... But still... You know, deep down in your soul, this is for the best. 'It keeps em outta trouble' was what they said. "They couldn't keep me out of trouble if they cut off my limbs and brainwashed my mind into thinking I was a monkey. It's carved into my heart like an engravement in stone." You spit on the ground and settle on slumping down in a corner. "Why are you doin that? You planin somethin?" You can't even sit without them thinking you're plotting something awful. This is how it is. This is how you live. It's not fair, but neither is what you did to those people. Seabird Prison, a fifteen year sentence, and you haven't even made it past a month.
YOU ARE READING
The Author's Stories
Historia CortaThis is a collection of short stories I've written that I decided I wanted to share. Most of these are angst. They aren't connected, I wrote almost all of them individually except the Stage stories.
