Does anyone here write?

[Chuck_The_Duck]

Well, I was just wondering. Does anyone here write? I've been writing for a while now, and I was just wondering if anyone else would like to join me... Heres a little something that I conjured up about Edward Darson. Friendo.

It’s six o’ clock already. I wake up, on command, and move to the entrance of my cell. Five minutes later, the wakeup call sounds, followed by the guards rapping on the cells with their nightsticks, carefully avoiding mine, nodding as they pass. I nod back, glad to oblige; after all, I am only in here for forgery. The buzzer sounds, the prisoners, myself included, take three steps forward and turn to the left. Morning inspection is the worst, they say, but I find it to be the quietest. The guards silently check the half-awake line for missing inmates. They check the clothes for money, drugs, magazines, anything out of the ordinary. They quietly skip me. They know what happens to people who touch me. After inspection we head to the cafeteria, where today’s special is cold oatmeal, with whole milk, as usual. I sit in my personal corner, alone and unafraid. Today, I decide, will be a good day. I observe what could be referred to as my loyal subjects. I know every gang, every tattoo, every sign and every look on every face. I slowly scan the room and get nothing but hurried looks and nods. To those brave enough, I nod back. The rabbit gets its carrot when it performs, why shouldn’t they? I return to my breakfast, the oatmeal swirling around in its round, white prison. How ironic. The talking suddenly ceases. I look up, slowly and deliberately. No need to ruin appearances. One man, standing at my table. One man, looking me in the eye, on purpose. One man, sitting down to eat. I look at him, I’m quite sure that my face is neutral.

“Sir, I am afraid that you have found the wrong table. It would be appreci-“
“Man, f**k you, holmes. There ain’t no f**king tables left.”

My lip quivers into a snarl. I try to keep from killing this man where he stands. The silence is endearing, the crowd is, of course, waiting for me to snap. It reeks of drama. I look at the man, he has tattoo’s I cannot recognize, and he is obviously new. Rage isn’t the right word, but it is the first that comes to mind.

“Sir, it would be in your best interest to get up and slowly walk away with your-“
“Man, f**k you! What the f**k you gonna do about it?!”

The man gets up, a foolish mistake. The table slides and makes that squeaking sound that I absolutely abhor. It’s enough to drive a man mad. By this point, even the guards are looking away. To stand up to me is potentially fatal. He is looking at me with anger on his face, mixed with what must be fear at this point. They say that in times of extreme emotion, most animals release hormones, pheromones, what have you, to telegraph certain things. This man must have gotten the whiff by now. Fear, from the crowd. Nervousness, from the guards. Anger, from me. It must have been an enticing aroma that he scented. I rise to the occasion. I grab his hand, scarred from drug deals gone wrong. Broken from loan sharks and coke dealers. Calloused from years of hard, pointless work. I process this information. I grab his ring finger. It breaks easily with a tug of my hand. A flick of the wrist and it is broken again. A push back towards him, and my job is done. A finger broken into three different pieces, the pain unbearable, I’m sure. He falls to the ground and I watch as he pisses himself in pain. He is on the ground now, pleading and begging for the pain to stop. I reach down and grab a lock of his hair, pulling his punched-in face, a face broken by so many punches, towards me.

“My name, sir, is Edward Darson. Edward. Darson. And I will not tolerate this insolence in my prison block. Do you understand?”

A silent nod and a “yes” spluttered through tears of pain is all I need to affirm my statement. I sit down quietly and nod to the guards, who come and take him to the infirmary. The oatmeal has never tasted so good.

The buzzer sounds as I head back to my cell. My little cell: the desk in the corner, next to the toilet and sink, my double-stack bunk bed with no one occupying it, my mirror and my television on my foot locker. My office, as it was. Everything is handled here, my taxes, my income, inmate issues, guard issues. The warden, sitting drunk in his office again, believes that he runs this prison, but all he does is sign the checks. I run this prison. I make sure that materials are distributed, the right people are bribed, killed, or fired, I make sure that the money comes in and goes out without a hitch. I review prisoner performances, prison guard statistics, and even some outside issues come my way. Prisoner #122-HCX-3445’s wife has just had a baby, can he extend his monthly allowance? It’s all up to me, in the end. The reviews are sent to the warden, who thinks that they are written by his lieutenant. The lieutenant gives me a modest 30% of his paycheck, and I take another 20% of all income made to the prison through prisoner-related activities. It is then distributed evenly to the prisoners, and they can decide who to bribe, who to send it to, who to spend it on, what to do with it. Once it is out of my hands, it is no longer my problem. Yes, day in and day out, I am here, solving the day to day problems, but this time, it’s in my little world. My home away from home.

The lunch bell rings. I get up from my little desk and shuffle to the cell door, the days exertions tiring me mentally. Snippets of conversations reach my ears. Meaningless words and phrases, all assaulting my ears, decibels at a time, but I don’t mind it. Talk means that the people are at ease. Unafraid of severe punishment, at ease with the current administrations ideals and policies. People should not be afraid of their government; the government should be afraid of their people. The line assembles, small talk and conversation flowing. This was not a prison made for murderers, not a prison made for gang-bangers or serial killers. This was a prison full of mistaken teenagers, pumped with adrenaline and mom’s money. Full of men who missed a number on a monthly report, added a zero or took away a one. The tattoos and muscular exteriors were a sham, all meant to intimidate the newbies. “What are you in here for,” the inevitable question came. Everyone in this prison was a gang member, a pusher, or a killer. But I knew the stories; I knew what became of these people. Did I ever tell anyone? That’s for them to decide. The line lurches away and a guard politely asks me if I am attending lunch this afternoon. I tell him that I would love to have turkey and gravy. He answers that it’s always on the house. I decide that I like him. He will have a bit more money in his paycheck next month.

The rest of the day goes like this. Waking up, getting breakfast, doing work, establishing rules. Days go on. Weeks will go on like this. Months, inevitably. Then years. I’m working on my fifth year, the Warden says to me. Only ten more years, he quips. But I had to think about that. Ten more years. You know the quote, “Better to rule in Hell then to serve in Heaven?” Is it true? For the longest time I never had the answer to that. For the longest time, I never knew if I would actually leave here, if I would give all this up. I never knew until I looked into that foot locker. My past, laid out before me. My sins, my mistakes, my life. All here. Trophies from a past, littered with the dreams of the dead. Photos of the crime scene. My beautiful Linda. My wonderful Paul. I am consumed once again with the hatred that burns within my chest. I scream into the darkness of my cell, my rage taking me over. Tears burn down my face, unavoidable sobs pierce the night air. And in the morning, no one says a thing to me. No one asks, no one ever has. No one can fathom what could make a man like me feel the way I do. The rage that Captain Ahab felt for the White Whale. I look out at the world and only see the faces of those who have done this to me. And it is at that moment that I know, I realize that I will have to leave this all behind, one day. I will make good my oath to track down and kill every one of these men and their families. They will know what it is like to come home to a shattered life. To live every moment knowing that they could have done something different. They will know my pain.

And thus, the day fades out, not with a bang, but a whimper. That day melts into the next, and the next. The next week, the next month, the next year. And on and on, I feel the pain that is inside me. The rage that is contained beneath my breast. I will escape from this cell. I will get out into the world and show these men what it means to die. When I am done with them, death will be as mercy.

“I am become Death, Destroyer of Worlds.”
-Robert Oppenheimer

[JustinCredible]

I do calligraphy class from time to time. I don't have anything at hand that I write; but I do in fact write.. just very fancy lol. For instance; My "J" has to be like some mural on a church wall lol.

[vgking7]

Ryu did Autum War.

[SPAD3R]

Hmmm....I kinda write some time..but its only like small stories. And my bro posts them on this website called WeeWorld....I don't know WHY..but yea....I do write..Nice story...chuck_the_duck

[vgking7]

Nice Story.

[shadowwolf1917]

that was good story

[vgking7]

That was good story? Don't you mean that was a good story.

[shadowwolf1917]

yeah, so your point is i forgot the a? does it matter?

[vgking7]

It sounded like this:
That was good, Story.

It sounded like you called Chuck Story. Just saying. Don't argue. If you do this time you started it.

[shadowwolf1917]

does it matter? this isnt some nerd convention and grammar competition is it? lol but yeah who cares.