The grim faced man lay on his cot, in his bright orange jumpsuit.  He stared, unmoving, at the ceiling, listening to the whispers and sounds of his fellow inmates in adjacent cells.  Separated only be thin walls, he could hear the goings on of the state prison.  The janitors sweeping up the day's dinner of fish sticks, and the cries and moans of fellow prisoners as they talked in their sleep.  It was his first night in the joint, with countless more to follow.  His cell was sparsely furnished, with a toilet and a sink in one corner, and a broken A/C unit sitting alone and forlorn in the dead, still, Georgia air.  The entire cell was solid grey concrete, save for the formidable iron bars of his door, pillars of oppression blocking any hope of escape.  he wished he was Peter, from the Bible stories he'd learned by heart in his youth.  Peter was imprisoned for his beliefs, but God freed him with a powerful earthquake.  if only that would happen to him now, imprisoned for preventing a white man from stealing his car.  The argument had escalated, until the man lay dead, killed in the conflict.  He had hoped then for a fair trial, but no he counted himself lucky he was merely beaten by the cops and not lynched by the mob.  He dreamed of it often, the light of the torches flickering, reflecting off of the shards of broken glass, fragmented over the dead man's head.  His bloodied hands tied, the noose around his neck.  The hate-driven crowd gesturing angrily at him, urging the violence on.  He would always awake then, into an even more hopeless situation.  He awoke now, sweat dripping from his face (sploosh! sploosh!).  He clutched his thin, rough blanket, though it provided him no comfort.  Everything had deserted him, his hope, his God, his very sanity.  With a great heave he tore his blanket in half, chest rising and falling with rage.  He fell back into his cot, great sobs escaping his cracked lips.  His life was over, he had nothing else to look forward to, not his family, friends, or his church.  He was going to die here alone, after living out his life in seclusion, alone.

Writing Assignment #2

The man lay on his cot, in his bright orange jumpsuit.  He stared, unmoving, at the ceiling, listening to the whispers and sounds of his fellow inmates in adjacent cells.  Separated only by thin walls, he could hear the goings on of the state prison.  The janitors sweeping up the day's dinner of fish sticks, and the cries and moans of fellow prisoner as they talked in their sleep.  It was his first night in the joint, with countless more to follow.  He cell was sparsely furnished, with a toilet and sink in one corner, and a broken A/C unit sitting alone and forlorn in the dead, still, Georgia air.  The entire cell was solid grey concrete, save for the formidable iron bars of his door, pillars of oppression blocking any hope of escape.  He wished he was Peter, from the Bible stories he'd learned in his youth, imprisoned by the government and freed by an earthquake.  If only that would happen to him, imprisoned for preventing a white man from stealing his car.  The argument had escalated, until the white man lay dead, killed in the conflict.  He had hoped then for a fair trial, but now he could count himself lucky he was merely beaten by the cops and not lynched by a mob.  He dreamed of it often, the light of the torches reflecting off the shards of broken glass, fragmented over the dead man's head.  He bloodied hands tied back, the noose around his neck, the rough cord wet with blood as it bit cruelly into his neck.  The hateful crowd gesturing angrily at him, urging the violence on.  He would always awake then, into an even more hopeless situation.  He awoke now, sweat dripping from his face, (sploosh! sploosh!)  clutching his thin blanket with all his strength, for all else had deserted him. His life over, nothing to look forward to in the future, not his family, his friends, his church.  He had nothing now that made him who he was.  No hope, nothing to live for.  If only the mob had had their way.  

Writing Assignment #2

The man lay on his prison cot, in his prison issue jumpsuit.  He stared, unmoving, at the ceiling, listening to the whispers and sounds of his fellow inmates in adjacent cells.  Separated only by thin walls, he could here the goings on of the state prison.  The janitors sweeping up the day's dinner of fish sticks, the cries and moans of fellow prisoners as they talked in their sleep.  It was his first night, with many more hopeless nights to follow.  His cell was sparsely furnished, with a toilet and sink in the corner, and a broken A/C unit sitting forlorn and alone in the dead, still, Georgia air.  The entire cell was solid grey concrete, save for the formidable iron bars of his door, pillars of oppression blocking any hope of escape.  He wished to be Peter, from the Bible stories he had learned in his youth, imprisoned and freed by an earthquake, freed by his beliefs.  If only that would happen to him, imprisoned for preventing a white man from stealing his car.  The argument escalated, the man lay dead, killed in the conflict.  He had hoped then for a fair trial,but now he could think himself lucky was was merely beaten by cops and not lynched by a crowd.  He dreamed of it often, the light of the torches reflecting off the shards of broken glass, fragmented over the dead man's head.  His bloodied hands tied back, the noose around his neck, the rough cord wet with his blood, biting into his neck.  The crowd gesturing at him, urging the violence on.  He would always awake then, waking into an even for hopeless situation.  He awoke now, sweat dripping from his face, clutching his thin blanket like a greedy boy would a sweet.  He could hear his family at home, despair in their faces as they cried for him, to protect them against the forces that imprisoned him.  He fell asleep again.  His family would never wake up.