#writing behind bars

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"Literary prizes go to prison inmates," Montreal Star. February 28, 1969. Page 30. ---- By DUSTY VINEBERG The Creative Awards Association yesterday presented awards for fiction and poetry to three inmates of the Special Correctional Unit, the super-maximum security installation at St. Vincent de Paul.

The Association is a private organization only a little over a year old which has been running classes in art, literature, theatre and other activities every week night at Leclerc Institute, another part of the St. Vincent de Paul complex.

The CAA also handed out five prizes to men in Leclerc who produced work in the creative writing program.

All work was read and judged by novelist Hugh MacLennan, Professor of English at McGill University.

To be published On the strength of his judgment that, though sometimes uneven, it has literary merit, program coordinator Mrs. Gertrude Katz is assembling it for publication.

The winning entry. "Stanley P. U. Smart," which brought its writer the $100 award. is about an old man searching for proof of his identity to present to pension authorities. According to Mrs. Katz, it is characterized throughout by skillfully suggested meanings on several levels and evocative descriptive passages.

The awards were presented by Mrs. Kay Lines, president of the CAA, in the Special Correctional Unit. At the time this installation was

built, outcries were raised against its windowless, super-security atmosphere. It has been open only a year, under the direction of War- den Jean Pagé and Assistant Warden Jacques Lessard.

Mrs. Katz said she originally started working with one inmate within its walls. Subsequently she asked poet Irving Layton to give the men a poetry reading which sparked more of them to try this form of self-expression. She says that as soon as an inmate shows signs of producing a sizable amount of work, "I get him someone to work with him."

The volume of work to be read and criticized and the correspondence involved make it difficult for one per son to handle many inmates, she said.

At the moment, poet George Bowering is working with one English-speaking inmate and Leandré Bergeron, Professor of Contemporary French Literature at Sir George Williams University. is handling the work of three French-speaking men. Also in the program is fourth-year McGill University English major René Akstinas, who has taken on two young prisoners.

Not censored Prison authorities permit manuscripts to go back and forth through the mail uncensored. The relationship between the writer and his editor is apt to be intense. The man who wrote the winning story calls Mrs. Katz his "mentor" (sometimes tormentor, he adds.) and has developed a protective attitude towards her while making it clear that "she does not know everything about prisons yet.'

Both the contact with "outsiders" and the feeling that people care are important to inmates.

The CAA group has based their program of studies, taught by talented teachers, on the idea that "it may be superheated but wrongly directed intelligence, in correlation with environment and various sorts of exacerbated sensibilities, that land men in trouble in the first place."

As Mrs. Lines puts it: non-conforming people are usually creative. Criminals are non-conforming. Therefore, criminals may be creative."

CREATIVE EFFORT RECOGNIZED: Mrs. Kay Lines, president of the Creative Awards Association, and creative writing coordinator Mrs. Gertrude Katz give awards to three inmates in the Special Correctional Unit at St. Vincent de Paul.

Staff Photo by Paul Tallleter

[starry-songs-canvas]

Take Care of Him

The boy, who had Damian’s face, couldn’t be more different than Dick’s (alive?) baby brother.

Aside from his Snow White hair, he smiled and laughed freely, making puns on top of his embarrassing story about his supposed twin brother.  

(“Clones don’t have childhood memories right?  So if I have an embarrassing story or two, that’ll give you a way to check that I’m not a clone AND give you ammunition for teasing!”)

“—And that’s how his face—and his pride—was forever wounded by Sparta the warrior cat!”  Danny finished his story with a flourish, cracking up immediately after.

“Huh, and to think he left it at “training”, obviously he didn’t think anyone would let the cat out of the bag.”  Dick said, laughing even as he eyed the lookalike.

Danny snorted.  “Yeah, I doubt he thought anything as Cat-astropic as that would happen.”

They sat in silence for a moment, overlooking the buildings below, with the Dalv. Co. Labs smoking in the distance and the breeze blowing past the two, yet only seeming to affect Nightwing and not the phantom beside him.

“Is he safe?  Is he happy?” Danny murmurs as he looks up at the stars, looking every bit the forlorn ghost he claimed to be.

“…We keep each other safe.  And I’d say once he got past the stabbing faze, he’s pretty happy in Gotham.”

“But I’m sure it’d make him happy to see you again.”  Dick thought back to the comments the vampire-ghost they’d fought earlier.  It didn’t sound exactly, “happy” or “safe” for Danny.  Or anyone else involved.

Danny shook his head.  “Nah.  He’s… moved on.  And with how crazy my after-life is?  I’m already dealing with ghosts, ghost-hunters, and my—err—that frootloop from earlier.  I do not need to add furries and murder-ninjas to the mix.”

Danny sighed as he floated into a standing position.  “Speaking of which, if you could just, maybe not tell him you saw me?  Better to let dead dogs lie.”

Danny’s piercing Lazarus green eyes looked at Dick and he saw the exact same expression B had on whenever he “had to do it alone”.

“Just, take care of him, Kay?  Or I’ll haunt you to the ends of the universe!”  He said, throwing up a peace sign as he turned invisible.

Dick snorted, “Yeah, sure kid.”

Dick got up and started off toward the bat-plane.  He had a brother to interrogate, and another brother/clone of his brother to find.

[ghostisun]

pronebone with dewther—

aether taking dewdrop apart while pressing him flushed on the bed, leaving his pretty little tits and leaking cock to be rubbed raw against the soft sheets. dew’s crying because of course he is—somehow, since the shift, only aether can push him into the brink of weeping ecstasy, until his mouth is babbling nonsense because he’s been fucked to the point of incoherence; his mind now a fragmented battlefield, splintering, full of nothing but his worship to aether.

dewdrop feels smaller like this—his body pinned down by aether’s bulk. he can’t lash out, can’t fight back; aether drills and drills and drills, and the only thing dew can do is take it, slicked hole opening up for aether’s girth, swallowing him down until it feels like the wide cockhead is hitting the back of his throat.

aether croons to him; trills how dewdrop is so beautiful like this, all pliant and crying and helpless. it makes dew snarl, flames flickering awake again, but aether snuffs it out with candied words and gentle hands, and his cock bullying itself so deep in dewdrop that it makes dew’s leaking cock squirt. tiny sprays, his throat scrubbed ragged with another broken yell.

satanas, what a pretty firefly this one is.

[definitelynotshouting]

heyo! i learned a new word today and thought i'd share cause it sounds like a word you'd like

the word is apricity and its an old English word meaning "the warmth of the sun in winter" :]

-🍁

leaf anon ur spot on the money i have instantly fallen in love with this word right now immediately. If anyone sees this show up in one of the next hunger au chapters you know EXACTLY who to blame /DEEPLY SILLY

[c-aptaincrash]

reread rotk and im thinking about t4t eowyn/faramir. does anyone see my vision.

[regrettablemeasure]

“i love mean women” you cant handle even the most passively mean female character. I see you complaining about Shadowheart when they TONED HER DOWN from EA. And in my opinion she wasn’t even very “mean” then, either. A female character is cheery and you complain that shes annoying. A female character ISN’T cheery and you complain that she’s annoying. Gee I wonder

[gifti3]

Dont let him out

[stjunebug]

[shadowsofthegun-if]

I wrote a little thingy thing for Aster and felt like sharing it. It's pretty choppy and ends pretty abruptly though so sorry about that. anyways enjoy<3

All Aster can focus on is the pain. White hot pain. They damn and curse at every single person who has ever told them you don’t even feel it when you get shot, that the pain comes afterward when the adrenaline is gone. That is a fucking lie.

They felt every single second of the bullet moving through their body. Felt it tear through their flesh. Felt it go all the way through and out again. Felt the agony of it creating another wound as it left their body.   

Now all they can do is lie there, feeling nothing and everything all at once. The heat. The pain. The wetness. Wetness?   

They tilt their head up as much as they can and for the first time notice how much blood surrounds them.   

“This can’t possibly be all of mine. Can it?”  

As they do their best to look around, they notice the body of the man that shot them. He’s dead, lying in his own pool of blood. Aster starts to chuckle at the sight. It’s a stupid thing to die for honestly, an argument turned into a fight that somehow morphed into a quick draw. Aster knew from the moment that man reached for his gun they were both going to regret it.  

And regret they did. Now they’re dying behind some shitty bar alone. God, they don’t want to die alone. They want someone here, no not just someone. They want their star here. They want their Sweetheart to show up and call them a fucking idiot for getting shot over nothing. They want them to take them back to camp and nurse them back to health. To hold them until the burning finally stops and they can breathe again.  

As Aster lays their head back on the ground, they stare up at the night sky. None of the stars shine as brightly or look as beautiful as their star, but it's close enough. Tears begin to stream down their cheeks as they fully realize the gravity of their situation. They will never see them again, and it's nobody's fault but their own.  

“Holy shit, Aster what the fuck did you do?”  

Aster lets out a sound that could either be a chuckle or a sob. They’re even hearing their Star's voice. That sweet, angelic voice that has probably insulted them more times than they could ever count. Suddenly, they feel someone's hands on their side, a fresh swell of pain surging through their body. “Jesus Christ, get the fuck off me” they shout out, desperate to make the agony stop.  

“Stop trying to move, you’re just going to make it worse” a voice replies as the pressure on their side increases. No, not just a voice, it's still their voice. Aster cracks their eyes open and looks at the figure leaning over them. It’s their star, coming to save their ass like always. Aster lets out a pained chuckle and shifts to get a proper look at them. A feeling of relief and hope rushing through their body. 

“Funny seeing you here huh Sweetheart,” they say, before they could get another word out Blessing sends them a glare that leaves them more worried that they might just kill them if blood loss doesn’t.   

[m0e-ru]

we should stop getting sequels and "what if"s because if atIus made some stupid story expansion spinoff about adachis jail life then everyone's gonna start shipping him with his warden

[bookinit02]

setting a goal to finish my buddie fic today and if i do not then i will be personally lighting myself on fire and uploading the video for you all to see

[born-to-lose]

I know the working conditions were kinda shitty and my colleagues and bosses didn't appreciate me enough but damn I miss the bar already 😭

[mashmouths]

they should invent a my brain that can complete assignments

[prismaticpichu]

So many IDEAS but so little energy to make them come alive ahhhhh. I swear if y’all could see the storyboards in my head man you’d be so impressed like for real just WOW this girl’s a GENUIS, YES, SOCKS BLOWN OFF-

But everyone’s socks are very much on. So small, cozy oneshots it is for now <33

[fallenwhumpee]

"I didn't do this."

Day 6: Framed | Bloody clothes | Behind bars • Masterlist •

Warnings: Blood, stabbing, past conditioning.

Whumpee hugged Caretaker's body, limbs trembling in their arms. This wasn't supposed to happen. They couldn't go after Whumper—leaving Caretaker alone was out of the question.

They pressed against the bleeding wound, ignoring the warm blood spreading through their clothes and the sticky feeling causing them to tremble as their skin touched the wet fabric.

"Hands up," a cold voice came after Whumpee didn't know how much time had passed.

"They will die," Whumpee shouted, a sob escaping. "I can't leave them."

"You've harmed them enough," Whumper shouted, freezing Whumpee with their tone. "Let. Them. Go."

Whumpee cursed, pressing on the wound even harder. That voice couldn't command them anymore. Whumpee wouldn't obey them.

"Put your hands up and let us help you," the cold voice said again.

"I didn't do this!" Whumpee cried. Whumper was there, standing right next to the police, but Whumpee couldn't think of anything else as Whumper played innocent, framing them like—

They felt Caretaker move, just a little, but it was still a movement. They wanted to reassure Caretaker, but someone pulled them back.

"Help them," they begged, their voice raw as they fell to their knees with a hushed plea. They didn't resist when they were handcuffed, and paramedics took Caretaker away.

Their surroundings blurred into one another as Whumpee wept, fear caging their mind. They wouldn't be there when Caretaker woke up.

If they woke up, a treacherous thought wormed its way into their mind, sirens in the background taking over their senses with a harsh push from their side.

"Stop crying and get out," a police officer snarled. Whumpee wanted to comply, and they tried, but it only made their body shake with sobs, their legs buckled beneath them.

"I told you to shut up." The police officer pushed them out, and Whumpee was not prepared for the kick that followed, their vision fading with the sharp pain.

They jerked with it, finding themselves between gray walls, much like—

"Finally awake. The police must have hit you pretty hard."

Whumpee turned their head, with the cell bars serving as a grounding change from Whumper basement.

"You're lucky that the guy you stabbed is alive. That's likely to lower your sentence significantly." The guard hit the bars twice.

Whumpee took a deep breath.

Caretaker was alive.

[cha1cedony]

Glenn Close on the brain again 💔