# Literary Maneuvers Mar 2019 "Warden I Want My Own Cell!"



## bdcharles (Mar 1, 2019)

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"Warden I want My Own Cell!"*
_650 words, deadline 23:59 GMT, Friday 15th March 2019_​ 
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Introduction*

This month's prompt, as voted for by  you, is  "Warden I want My Own Cell!", for  which  you are to write a maximum of  650  words of fiction.  Pick your  own   title, write about whatever  you  want,  in whatever prose     style  and  interpreted as you see  fit, as  long as  it's related in  some way  to   the prompt. You decide  the best  way in  which to dazzle  your  readers  - and the judges. :smile:

The judges this month are, so far, *SueC, velo* and myself, *bdcharles*.  If you  wish to join this month's panel (max of 4),  please sign up    for  judging by PM or in  the coffee shop. If you want  to  judge   and I     left you out, send me  your scores before the end of the month.   If    you're    listed here and don't wish  to judge, please let me know at          once.

If you win, you'll get a badge  pinned to your profile plus a           month’s access   to Friends of Writing Forums (FoWF) where you’ll  have      access to hidden forums. Pretty neat,  eh?

All entries that wish to retain their first rights should post in the *LM Workshop Thread**.*

All Judges scores will be PMed to* bdcharles* _as soon as possible after the competition closes. _*Note:* I will give judges *3 days* into the next month to deliver their scores and then I will post with what I have.

All anonymous entries will be PMed to* bdcharles*. 

Lastly, why not check out this ancient text on how to best approach this task.


*Rules*




*All forum rules apply.* The LM competition is considered a creative area of the forum. If your story contains inappropriate language or content, do _not_ forget add a disclaimer or it could result in disciplinary actions taken. Click *here* for the full list of rules and guidelines of the forum. 
*No Poetry!*              Nothing against you poets out there, but this isn’t a place     for      your     poems. Head on over to the poetry challenges for   good        competition  over    there. Some of us fiction people   wouldn’t be   able      to understand  your    work! Click *here* for the poetry challenges. Play the prose-poem game at your own risk. 
*No posts that are not entries into the competition are allowed.* If you have any questions, concerns, or wish to take part in discussion please head over to the *LM Coffee Shop. *We’ll be glad to take care of your needs over there. 
*Editing your entry after posting isn’t allowed.* You’ll be given a ten minute grace period, but after that your story may not be scored. 
*Only one entry per member.* 
*The word limit is 650 words not including the title.*              If you go over - Your story will not be counted. Microsoft     Word    is     the   standard for checking this. If you are unsure of     the  word    count    and   don't have Word, please send your story  to    me and  I'll    check it    for you. 





*There are a few ways to post your entry:*




If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you can simply post your entry here in this thread. 
You can opt to have your entry posted in *the Workshop *which              is a special thread just for LM entries. You would put your       story       there  if you wish to protect your first rights, in  case   you    wish  to      have the  story published one day. Note: If  you  do  post    it in  the      workshop thread,  you must post a link  to it   here in    this  thread      otherwise your story may  not be  counted. 
You       may post      your story  anonymously.  To do so, send your story  to     the  host of  the      competition. If you wish to  have us post  it  in    the  workshop   thread   then   say so. Your name will be   revealed   upon   the   release of  the   score. 


Everyone is welcome to participate, _including judges_. A judge's    entry will receive a           review by their fellow judges, but it    will not receive a score.   Please         refrain from 'like'-ing or    'lol'-ing an entry until the   scores  are        posted.

Judges: In the tradition of LM competitions of yore, if you could send              the scores one week after the closing date it will ensure a     timely  release    of results.    Please     see the *Judging Guidelines* if you have questions. Following the suggested formatting will be much appreciated, too. 

*This competition will close on:*Friday night 15th of March at 11:59:59 PM, GMT, on the  dot. Please note    any time differences where you are and be mindful of daylight savings    time.​
Scores would be appreciated by the last day of the current month, at the  latest, pretty please, cherry on top, mmm? Too much later than that and  I will have to post with any scores that I have.

Click here for the current time. Good luck!


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## Tim (Mar 8, 2019)

FAMILY  (645 words. Graphic violence warning.)


            "First of all big brother," the sickening thud sounded like belting a cold-side-of-beef with a mallet. "You'll call me 'Warden'!" The man handcuffed to the thick steel bars, grunted and coughed through his half-clogged nose. Drops of pain induced sweat ran down his tortured features: over his taped up mouth, dribbling from his chin.

           "Secondly," the nightstick whooshed on the back hand stroke. _SMACK__!_ "Welcome... I always knew you'd end up in here." The prisoner grunted again, eyes screwed shut. Two angry red welts glowed on his lower back muscles.

           Whoosh..._SMACK!
_"Who's the big, tough crime-boss now?" The Warden expertly landed the powerful blow in the exact same spot, amplifying the infliction. The muscles of the convict flexed from pain and the steel cuffs bit into the raw flesh of his wrists, triggering a trickle of dark blood.

           "Two back-to-back life sentences," whoosh..._SMACK!_ The backhand blow again. "We've got all the time in the world, hey brother?" The efforts of the determined Warden were taking their toll. The victims shaky knees buckled and the handcuffs bit deeper, more blood flowing.

           "Time to flip him over," said the Warden puffing a little, slapping the truncheon in his palm repeatedly. "This side's done." The two burly guards stepped forward. The prisoner struggled. No chance.

           "You guys take a break," said the Warden. "My brother and I wish to be alone. Family thing." The guards filed out of the dreary cell and the Warden took a long step closer.
       Quietly he said, "You know why I didn't visit you straight away?" driving his knee into the prisoners groin. The muffled nose-grunt was louder and dragged out. The tape on the mans mouth puffed outward, but held: his body sagged, head rolling forward. The Warden lifted the inmates chin with the tip of the baton. "Do try to pay attention." The mans eyelids fluttered, regaining consciousness slowly. He grunted and looked at his antagonist with wet, pain-wracked eyes, through half closed lids.

           "I was waiting for the DNA test results," slamming the short end of the nightstick into the mans mouth, forcing the head to smash backward, into the hard steel bars. "Positive!" The prisoners head lolled to the side, mucus running from his nose.

           "My beloved Diana," the Warden hissed in a low tone. "Was already pregnant with your daughter. You used Diana. Shovelling buckets of Cocaine up her nose and then you dumped her. Abandoned her. Abandoned your daughter, Belinda. She's a beautiful girl. Such a shame you'll _never__,__ever_ see her. So tonight, when I go home to my perfect, loving family, you'll rot in here. Now... I'm not an inconsiderate guy. I've already picked out your large, hairy boyfriends for you."

           The Wardens mobile phone rang. "Hold that thought," he said, reaching into his pocket.

           "Speak of the devil," looking at the display. "Hello dear," he started pacing, dropping the black baton on the prison cot. His free hand massaging his creased brow. "Wait...wait...calm down dear. You're not making any sense..." his feet stopped. "Look, she's done this sort of thing before. You know what a klutz she is. She's probably at a friends house and she forgot to charge her--"

           The Warden glanced at his brothers pain filled gaze. And he froze, "A _what?_...Read it to me."

           He listened to the phone in silence, frown deepening. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his white shirt. He took a deep breath exhaling slowly and put the phone away. Their eyes locked together for a long, uncomfortable minute.

           The Warden snarled, stepping forward and tore the tape from the prisoners mouth in disgust. The crime boss coughed, spitting warm blood and a pink piece of front tooth, on the floor.
           "First of all Warden," he said. "I want My Own Cell."


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## -xXx- (Mar 12, 2019)

here *one instance of language*


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## epimetheus (Mar 13, 2019)

*The nurse will see you now.*
648 words


Footsteps echoed down the dim corridor. Gemma thought briefly that they followed her, realising they were her own only when she stopped. The wing had been abandoned for several years; vomit green paint peeled from the wall, surrendering to time. Gemma had always been drawn to the morbid quietude of such places: forgotten graveyards, empty hospitals, she had even taken a trip to Chernobyl. But this felt different; hostile. Likely because it was part of a prison, and in these halls had walked murderers and rapists. One of the cell doors was partially open. Drawn by the unknown she pushed against the protesting door and poked her head inside. The room was empty. Without a bed the cell seemed too large for someone serving time. Just as she was about to duck her head back out, something caught her eye. Here too the paint had peeled, but in the far corner, subdued in shadow, a face painted in red upon the wall looked out at her. Heart fluttering, she craned her neck and squinted her eyes. There was something odd about its eyes. 

She jumped at the sudden sound, banging her shoulder against the door. Her pager beeped again. Swearing, she checked the number: the prison infirmary. No point calling them, she could walk there in 5 minutes. 



Gemma arrived to a screaming inmate being wrestled to a trolley by three guards. As he thrashed against them, all she could see was that his face was covered in blood. 

“What’s the story?” she asked, heading straight for the drugs cupboard to prepare an injection of Lorazepam.

“No idea, the guy just arrived yesterday…” was as much as the guard could say before having to heave the bucking inmate down again.

“I won’t go back! Never…” the inmate said, kicking out.

“Let me try talking to him. What’s his name?” Better to win his cooperation than have to sedate him, which would require hours of observation.

“Segova,” said a guard, straining against the inmate.

Gemma knelt down to make eye contact with him, though ensuring a healthy distance. But his eyes were swollen shut behind dry and fresh blood.

“Segova, I’m a nurse, I’m here to help. Tell me what’s going on.”

She didn’t think he would respond, he only strained against the guards, but he couldn’t budge them. He gasped and his body went limp. He looked exhausted. 

“Don’t make me go back,” he sobbed, “I won’t go back. Anything but that… anything.”

“What happened Segova? Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“He made me do it. I couldn’t stop him. Then he was gone. I won’t go back!” he kicked off again, managing to fling one guard away. The wrestling match resumed, enough for him to be a risk to himself. Sedation it was. She didn’t fancy trying to cannulate him flailing around like that, so an intra-muscular injection was the only way to go. 

“Any chance of exposing his butt?”

One guard, straining in an awkward position, pulled a face at Gemma of such fury it could have restarted an arrested heart.

“Alright, I’ll go for his thigh.” She wrangled down his pants enough to expose some skin, and shot the drug into him, not bothering with the alcohol wipe.

“How long will it take?” a guard asked.

“Give it a few minutes. You’ve bleeped the doctor?”

“I have,” a voice behind her said. She turned to see the prison governor walk in. 

“I want my own cell… tell the screw…” said Segova, although a heaviness already slurred his words.

Gemma made ready to wash out and bandage his eyes, and asked, “So, someone attacked him? Tried to take out his eyes?”

“Couldn’t be. He’s been by himself in his cell the whole time.”

In that instant Gemma saw the face upon the wall in the abandoned wing, and somehow knew that it was scrawled in blood.


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## rcallaci (Mar 13, 2019)

A Taste to Die For (650 words) (language and subject matter warning)

     When I was a boy I loved to play in the mud with the pigs. It felt good to roll around in the wet dirt squealing and grunting along with the fat hogs and their little wild piglets. I felt free and alive. The beast within roared with delight. But my swimming with swine always ended up with my mama picking me up out of the mud covered in pig shit. With a half grin she always said, “Oink, Oink, Oink, you’re a little piggy no more. Now it’s time to put on your man shoes.  You’re daddy’s hungry and has a hankering for some meat. Go butcher a boar of your choosing. Make thin cuts, it maximizes the servings.”  

      At first I felt bad about skinning and gutting hogs that I played and frolicked with in the mud. But after a time it just seemed natural and right. We all got to eat and pig meat tasted mighty fine. It also honed me up on the killing skills that are needed to survive and thrive in this god forsaken world. But I realized my love of animals was causing an inner conflict within me. How can I eat and kill them when I wanted to be free, unfettered, and wild like them. The beast within me was distressed. But a solution slowly formed.  It was just a matter of time before my killing preference and taste for meat shifted from animal to man.  My mommy and daddy always told me what you eat is what will define you. Human meat is what I now eat and it made me what I am; one mother-fucking cannibal man. 

     I became a man of discriminating tastes. My taste buds had become quite refined. I learned how to skin, filet, slice, dice, and sauté human meat to near perfection. I also learned how to make a delicious soup out of the blood using an old family recipe.  Through trial and error I learned that not all human folk tasted the same.  Female meat was tenderer and less gamey than males.  Also the age of the human animal was a determining factor concerning varying tastes. To make good soup one needed an aged human. Young meat was more sweet and tender than that of an older one.  The best ages to hunt and eat were those from eighteen to fifty-five. Anything younger or older just didn’t taste right.  People were like refined wines and I cultivated all my senses picking only the best hosts for my choice meats and soups.

     I became filthy rich by selling my meats and soups to like-minded individuals on the dark web. I got rave reviews from all who sampled my gourmet delights. I also created a drink out of particular bloods and bodily fluids. People who drank it claimed it had a rejuvenating effect. I was the toast of the cannibal eating community. 

     Now you might’ve wondered where I got my supply of human foodstuffs from.  Soup kitchens my friend, lots and lots of soup kitchens. I was the Soup Kitchen King of Tulsa Oklahoma. All the homeless and indigenous folk flocked to my kitchens.  They loved my soups and meats. I fattened them up and gave them a place to eat and sleep.  I killed and cooked those who fit my criteria. They were invisible people that no one missed. And the irony of it all is I became a beloved figure in Oklahoma. I even got on the cover of Time Magazine.  

     But all good things eventually come to an end. Mine came because I chose the wrong subject to kill. It turned out that she was a runaway heiress. She was definitely missed. When they opened my storage freezers and saw those hanging cadavers, all hell broke loose.  

 Warden, I want my own cell. Only then will I tell you where the bones are buried.


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## bdcharles (Mar 13, 2019)

Subterranean Reluctant Messiah
_(anonymous entry; 650 words; adult language)_


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## Fatclub (Mar 14, 2019)

*Stinky-Binks *(bad language)

Just before lockup, the door opened and…"Here you are, Binksy. New cellmate for ya.”

Nobody calls me Stinky-Binks to my face. The 'screw' shut the door leaving us alone. My new cellmate glanced at me lying on bottom bunk then he looked at the vacant empty top.

“What’s that smell?” he said, nose wrinkling.

I sized him up – first thing you do with a new cellmate: small, weedy, no threat. A proper ginger- whinger. “Some things you gotta put up with, Jinj.” I said. “Live and let live.” That's 'tough shit' to you and me. I shower-dodge every chance I get, even though I sweat buckets. Well, middle o’ summer, you know. Also, I hate treading in the man-jelly left on the shower floor. “What’re you in for?” I asked (second thing you do).

“Fraud,” he said, climbing up to his bunk. “Second spell, before you ask.” (That would’ve been the third thing: first-timer or not?). “You?”

“Assault,” I said. I’m really in for burglary. Again. “Cop was having a go at me so I walloped him.
”    
Twenty minutes in and he was complaining. “Sounds like you're tearing material down there. I’ve been here two minutes and you’ve farted about ten times. It stinks of your arse up here.” 

“I like my cabbage and onion soup. Get get used to it.”

I quite like prison for a couple o'months or so. Just a couple. I like the break from wondering where I'll be kipping tomorrow night, where's the next meal coming from. I gotta free dentist, doctor and barber here. Free meals. Free everything, really. You get less service in an old folks home and they'll charge a grand a week.

"Ooh!" I said to myself as I got up. "Time for a clearout."

I pulled my shorts down and sat on the bogseat. There was a noisy 'Bakerloo-Breeze' at first. You know, that draft you get on the tube platform when a train's approaching in the tunnel but you can't see it yet. I heard Jinj shift on his bunk to look down.

"You've got to be joking," he moaned. "They only locked up half hour ago. Couldn't you have gone before? Outside?"

I go when _I_ want, not when _you_ want," I said.

"I'm not having this. I'll get the warden to move me tomorrow - he owes me a favour."

We were quiet for a few minutes but as I lay down on my bunk Jinj started up again.

"What? Doesn't the bog flush?" He climbed down, flushed the bog and carried on whinging. "You've shat all up the side of the pan - is your arsehole on your hip, or something? This cell's gonna stink all night."

I reminded him that I was inside for assaulting a cop but he just carried on whinging.

In the morning he moaned about my mattress creaking, about me having two 'handshandies' and snoring all night.

I was relieved when he left in the morning ('turned out he _did_ know the warden). Great, I thought - my own cell for a few hours before the next cellmate. I hoped the next one wouldn't moan like old Jinj; I don't normally give a shit about what my cellmate thinks but he was driving me nuts. It was enough to make me wanna change my habits-

-I _don't_ think! (Haha.)

As lockup time approached my hopes increased about being on my ownsome for the night when the screw appeared at the door with my new cellmate. I stared in horror as the door slammed shut.

Bonecrusher Briggs!

Big n' bald. Hairy. Tatts and rotten teeth. Muscley too - like a brown condom stuffed with walnuts. The full package.

"I begged the warden," said Bonecrusher, eyeing me with intent. "I want my own cell. Give it to me and I'll be good. If not, I'll be _bhaaad_!" 

I wish I'd been nicer to old Jinj.


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## luckyscars (Mar 15, 2019)

Dignity 

_644 Words - Language warning_


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## Arachne (Mar 15, 2019)

Bad Moon Rising - 649 Words - Language and content warning


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## Kebe (Mar 15, 2019)

The Man in the Cell (643 words, content warning)


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