Blissfullyoblivious
New member
- Jul 18, 2010
- 3
- 0
- 1
I'm writing a short story on confinement and isolation where my main character, Chase Johnson, is a prisoner in complete isolation (maybe for life; not sure about the small details yet). I'm thinking about taking this story in two different directions, so I'm looking for opinions. The first (this is the one you'll see below) is where I do a little foreshadowing and then I describe what got Johnson into prison. The second (I haven't written anything to go along with this, but it's just an idea) is where I focus more on Johnson's life in prison. I think the first option would be easier, but the second more interesting. So, considering what I have below, which option would you go with?
(Sorry, G. I know you didn't want to write on something about prison, but I just can't seem to let go of this idea. I'm not sure what it is about this idea that draws my interest, but I can't get it off my mind. Haha, I'm losing sleep over this idea).
Confinement
They sit in cobblestone cells eight paces long by seven paces wide. Each cell has a dingy cot that makes a symphony of creaks, as they situate themselves before slumber. Each cell has a rusty sink and toilet that give off toxic fumes, like those from sewage drains. Each cell has faded messages inscribed on the walls that show life is no stranger to this place. Each cell has a unique story that is only found when one stays behind the cold, metal bars.
It’s a humid, sunny day of June— Tuesday, June 18 of ’96, to be exact. Little ones are enjoying games of hide-and-seek on the playground, bigger ones are relishing in their newly found freedom from school and even bigger ones are relaxing with a good book after a hard day of work. For the residents in Southport, North Carolina, this Tuesday is just like any other. For Chase Johnson, this Tuesday is just another footprint in the sand, another tally for the record.
He is a man of seventy-two inches. He is a man of chestnut curly locks. He is a man of crystal blue eyes. He is a man of a stout nose. He is a man of chapped, pale lips. He is a man of large triceps and larger biceps. He is a man of fine business clothes. He is a man of isolation, invisible power.
(Sorry, G. I know you didn't want to write on something about prison, but I just can't seem to let go of this idea. I'm not sure what it is about this idea that draws my interest, but I can't get it off my mind. Haha, I'm losing sleep over this idea).
Confinement
They sit in cobblestone cells eight paces long by seven paces wide. Each cell has a dingy cot that makes a symphony of creaks, as they situate themselves before slumber. Each cell has a rusty sink and toilet that give off toxic fumes, like those from sewage drains. Each cell has faded messages inscribed on the walls that show life is no stranger to this place. Each cell has a unique story that is only found when one stays behind the cold, metal bars.
It’s a humid, sunny day of June— Tuesday, June 18 of ’96, to be exact. Little ones are enjoying games of hide-and-seek on the playground, bigger ones are relishing in their newly found freedom from school and even bigger ones are relaxing with a good book after a hard day of work. For the residents in Southport, North Carolina, this Tuesday is just like any other. For Chase Johnson, this Tuesday is just another footprint in the sand, another tally for the record.
He is a man of seventy-two inches. He is a man of chestnut curly locks. He is a man of crystal blue eyes. He is a man of a stout nose. He is a man of chapped, pale lips. He is a man of large triceps and larger biceps. He is a man of fine business clothes. He is a man of isolation, invisible power.