#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.

[casdeans-pie]

There's something weird about the alley behind Dean's favourite bar.

Dean will hang out there for a smoke just before he heads home, and he swears that sometimes there's a door, right across from him on the opposite wall, and sometimes there isn't. He even mentioned it to Ellen once, but she just laughed while handing over his beer and told him he'd been drinking too much.

But that's not it.

When Dean tries to think about it too hard it slips through his mind like shifting sand. But he's sure the door comes and goes.

The bitter scent of coffee drifts through the cigarette smoke whenever the door is there, and one time Dean even thought that he caught quiet murmers of conversation. Is it the door to a cafe? Seems like it would be a weird place for one - in an alleyway at the back of a dingy bar...

After a while Dean is sure that there are some strange symbols carved into the old wooden door, but as soon as he sits down with a pen and paper to draw them, he can't seem to remember what they looked like.

After a few months of this he doesn't want to admit that he might be losing his mind, but the thought does cross him once or twice. Dean decides the only way he can get over it is if he goes inside. And yet, every time he gets more than a few paces away, he finds that he's turned around and is heading back into the bar, no longer interested in the door at all.

Now Dean stands, blows out cigarette smoke, and glares at the door that he knows he sees, and the desire to go inside sits heavily in his gut again. Something that he has noticed is that the more he focuses on it - the more he's thought about it (obsessed over it) all this time - the closer he can get before he's turned around.

And that the door only appears on Thursdays.

Dean crushes his cigarette under his boot and starts walking.

It feels like he's wading through syrup as he crosses the distance of one side of the alley to the other, but he finally (finally) feels the cool smoothness of a handle under his hand - and he knows that he's reached the door. His hand is tingling violently and the strange sensation quickly spreads through the rest of his body, skittering under his skin. Dean shivers.

But he made it. There is a door. He made it!

"Fuckin' knew it," Dean says, with a fierce rush of triumph. He glances up at the door, but he's surprised to see that where the symbols had been before, it now clearly says, 'Cafe Castiel. Angels Only'.

Angels only?

Dean shrugs and leans his weight down onto the handle... but it won't budge. He distantly feels himself letting go and wanting to head back to the bar but he grits his teeth and grabs the handle with both hands.

"Oh no you don't," Dean says to the door, not caring if he's finally lost it. "You're letting me in!"

The handle gives. Dean's whole body weight leans down onto it and he yelps as the door swings inwards, and he stumbles inside.

[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

[telesodalite]

Woe, unfinished, mildly edited, fulfire fic tid-bits be upon you

-

Like a magnet, his optics kept drifting back to Misfire's face. His stupid, strangely charming face.

For a short while, after Clemency, it had been that face that haunted some of his nightmares. His recalls blurring the lines between the strange reality of Misfire's hands reaching into him to lock his fuel pump back into the very spot he'd pulled it from, and the fear that just as easily he could pull it out again. They had been bloody dreams. Dreams that had him startling awake, gripping his chest in the vain attempt to close what wasn't open, before spending the rest of the day avoiding Misfire's optics.

But now things were different. Not Misfire's face. No, that hadn't changed much. But Fulcrum's dreams had definitely changed. To say the least of what all rolled around in his processor as he slept nowadays.

Some of those newer dreams had crept to the forefront of his mind as he sat there on the couch, staring as the lights of the screen reflected dully across Misfire's plating in hazy blues and greys.

The lighting made his colors seem muddy and faded, but Fulcrum didn't really care, nor did he care to think what it made himself look like. He was too busy bringing an empty engex can to his lips while he watched the crinkle of Misfire's nose as he barked a laugh at something Fulcrum didn't catch onscreen.

He'd started noticing it months ago, all the ways the silvery mesh of Misfire's face would scrunch up with his emotions. Those little crinkles along his optics and nose when he laughed or glared. The creases indented along his cheeks when he grinned. Fulcrum found himself quietly logging away these little details. Idle notes and observations that had suddenly started piling up in the corners of his processer.

He… He'd never really done that before? He'd never really noticed those sorts of things in other mechs.

The faces and expressions of his past colleagues never seemed terribly important. All the details of every smile and frown were never worth filing away, outside of few notable moments where those expressions reflected his work performance. But besides the smile that meant promotion, and the frown that meant he'd screwed up, nothing else was noticeable. Nothing was worth remembering.

But now the memory of every genuine laugh that bubbled out of Misfire sat comfortably besides memories of warm joyful optics that Fulcrum found himself collecting every time Crankcase cracked a rare half-smile for him, or when Krok placed a reassuring hand against his back, or the times Spinister spontaneously pointed out something odd but ultimately nice about his stupid frame.

He didn't really know why he was doing it, memorizing all these mundane little things, just to have them flit through his processer randomly. Maybe it was because those expressions, those details, felt… comforting? Comforting in such a strange and unfamiliar way. But, a good way. A good sort of strange, much like the mechs themselves.

-

-

He had stared for a long moment, the credits and their rolling tune playing somewhere in the background as Fulcrum stared back. But Misfire was never one for personable silence, even as the sound of some likely long dead Iaconian orchestra filled the room.

"What is it?" He asked, a small chuckle escaping him as he brought a hand to his face, "Don't tell me I've poured it all over myself again."

It had taken Fulcrum longer than usual to unstick his glossa from the roof of his mouth as he watched Misfire run a thumb over his lips, but eventually he had coughed out a small, choked, "No."

That had earned him an odd look at first, but with their fields loose and open, Fulcrum could almost feel the exact moment something clicked in Misfire's mind, as the idle comfortable static he projected in pulsing waves evened out into something openly curious and almost subdued.

It wasn't often Fulcrum felt him that clearly.

Misfire tended to keep his field fairly close, though, maybe not as close as the others did, what with how Crankcase kept an iron grip on his, and how Krok's always held an air of strained control, even when it slipped from him. But still, Misfire's was always hard to read, no matter the reach or depth of his field.

Even then and there, with it loose and unfiltered and buzzing with the engex running through his system, there was an ever present undertone of something indescribably jumbled about him, like too many feelings at once, each too vast and hurried for Fulcrum to really feel or understand.

It always seemed to stir the passive anxiety Fulcrum must've been forged with when Misfire's field brushed against his own. As facing the indescribable vague mess of Misfire felt like trying to untangle a pile of live-wires he couldn't even see.

It was almost frustrating in a sense, the need to try and sort and understand what wasn't even his to begin with. But at the same time it was almost exciting as well. It was like a game, like a puzzle he had yet to solve.

-

-

Finally letting his own can go tumbling to the floor to join Misfire's, Fulcrum had brought a hand to cover his face as he drew his legs up and leaned back against the arm of the couch, trying to suppress the fit as the sly look slipped from Misfire's face at the sounds.

While Fulcrum had laughed, and… snorted, embarrassingly, he had felt Misfire's field change again, brushing something fizzy and almost warm against his plating as Misfire's features softened.

"I'm looking at you," Fulcrum had said then between gulps of air, letting his hand fall from his face as he reached out to poke at Misfire's chest, "Dumbaft."

His finger had lingered over the thick plating there for maybe a little longer than necessary, drawing Misfire's attention as it slid down a little before pulling away.

Looking back up again with his helm angled slightly, Misfire had followed the sight of his hand leaving his plating to where Fulcrum let it fall between them.

"Wow…" Misfire had chuckled a little dryly, "I was gonna make it real easy for you. I was going to say something like, ''Do you like what you see?'' or-… or something like that. But now you've ruined it. Good job."

Meeting Fulcrum's optics again as he pulled his own hand back from Fulcrum's shoulder, he brought it to rest between them as well.

"And you're laughing at me," He said next, faking a small pout as his hand drifted closer to Fulcrum's, "Which totally ruins the whole vibe I was going for really. I mean, it's sort of hard to be all nice and suave-like when you're being laughed at. Total vibe killer. Bit of an ego killer too if I'm being honest. So thanks for that loser, thanks for saying I have a funny face."

With Misfire's fingers brushing distractingly past his own, Fulcrum didn't think before the words stumbled out of him.

"I like your face."

It came out almost matter of fact sounding, Fulcrum's laughter having died down while Misfire complained about it. But at the same time the words felt so simple, they came out so easily, and in a weird way they felt nice to say. But Misfire's optics had widened in surprise, his frame frozen and his field suddenly struck quiet, and despite the engex numbing his usual nerves, Fulcrum felt a sudden pang of anxiety because of it.

The silence in Misfire's field was terribly alien. It felt wrong, and something in Fulcrum spiraled to think he had caused it. But slowly, almost as if it were creeping forward, an odd almost scrutinizing uncertainty fanned outward in a careful wave. Misfire moved with it, leaning closer as he searched Fulcrum's expression for something.

"Oh yeah?" He'd said lowly then, and that sly look returned. But that vague uncertainty didn't fade with it, if anything, Fulcrum felt it strengthen. Caught between what he saw, in Misfire's easy smile and dimmed optics, and what he felt, in the growing hollow distance within their fields, Fulcrum found himself frowning and pulling back.

-

-

Growing frustrated with himself, and wanting that feeling back, he had pushed forward, shifting onto his knees as he reached for Misfire's face before the other could pull away from him entirely.

"I like your face." He said firmly, maybe too firmly. His expression still drawn into a frown as he pressed his fingers into Misfire's helm, brushing his thumbs across the silver mesh he'd been staring so intently at before. "I like your optics, and your nose. I- I like the way you smile. When you really smile, and when you laugh. I do. I'm not lying."

And oh there it was again, that little curl of warmth in Misfire's field. Almost a tangible thing, like a brush of ventilation, but Misfire wasn't venting. His mouth hung open ever so slightly, but no breath left him as he stared at Fulcrum with widening optics.

Spurred on by that tiny bloom of warmth, Fulcrum chased after it with slightly slurred words and clumsy hands as he tried to fix whatever he'd done wrong, hoping with each word that Misfire might soften and smile again.

"I like your expressions, and- and I like your voice," He said, glancing down at Misfire's parted lips, and laughing softly, nervously, as he continued, "Even when you say something so stupid. I like- I like the way it sounds. I like your accent, I like the way it makes your words sound. I- I like your- your mouth?"

Once more that weird but nice feeling settled in Fulcrum's chest. Those simple words felt good to say. It felt like a weight off his shoulders, like an admission he'd been waiting to say. About what and why? He wasn't really sure. But the warmth grew, and Misfire took a sharp vent inwards, and that felt right, so Fulcrum kept on.

"I like your helm," He said with a smile, reaching up to brush his fingers over the jutting finials there, before dropping his hands to settle lightly over Misfire's chest. "I like your frame, the colors of it. I like your-"

Before he could finish, Misfire was surging forward, knocking their helms together and nearly bruising the mesh of their noses as he tried for, and just barely missed, Fulcrum's lips.

-

👁👁👍

[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

[ratsonas]

is there any poetry about shelter dogs that isnt like. majorly cheesy. would love too see poetry about shelter animals written by someone who really gets it

[stjunebug]

[sdpubliclibrary]

Lunar New Year Behind Bars

The Year of the Wooden Dragon 2024

[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

[rainbowkeyboardyippee]

I'm going to explode

Brainwashing and mind control and corruption and hypnosis and turning friends against friends and twisting someone's core values and making someone act against their goals they've worked so hard for and inherently changing the very being of a person into something they'd despise if they were even aware of what was happening

[mashmouths]

they should invent a my brain that can complete assignments