View Full Version : My Short Story

08-07-2007, 03:18 PM
I wrote this in June for school but I was wondering what y'all thought of it:

The Great Reward

The room is especially light, hard, and lacks decoration. I sit on the extremely uncomfortable bench. The bench hurts so much, it’s as if the thing was carved straight from elephant bones, yet it displays a misleading oak façade. I am as fidgety as ever. My arms remain calm but my legs are moving a million miles per hour. The man in the uniform calls my name. It is my turn to shine.
The victim before me, a Latino named Julio, shuffles out of the room. He tries to keep his cool, but anyone can tell he’s pissed. He obviously could not get the greatest reward. As soon as I enter the room, I am greeted by five dull faces, three male and two female. I sit down on a similar bench, but am immediately told to stand. The man in the uniform says:
“Case 2031779, The State Of Georgia vs. Michael George Hutch.”
I sit. The Parole Board of the Fulton County Correctional Facility stares down upon my hopeless body. Despite the importance of tranquility, I fidget restlessly. I am wide awake, awaiting any sort of sound from the board members. The foreman, a small, white man with a military haircut, is the first to speak:
“State your name and number for the record”
“Michael George Hutch, Case 2031779.”
“Now Michael, It states in your file that twenty years ago today, you were convicted of armed robbery after a plea of not-guilty. You were then sentenced to forty years with a possibility of parole in twenty. That is today, Michael.”
“Yes sir, I’m aware.”
I was not actually. Time just sort of meshes together in this dump. I had originally thought I was going to the B-wing for another dose of that terrible pill. I can’t stand them. Twice a day for what? It all made no sense to me. But who am I to ask. I’m just dangerous and ill. Devils plague my body all day, often telling me to do things a normal person would just find wrong.
A slovenly black man to the left of the foreman is the next to speak:
“According to the prison medical staff, it shows that your suffer from schizophrenia. However, your behavior is stellar compared to the other patients with similar situations. Have you been taking your meds?”
A stupid question to ask. The moron had the records right in front of him. I am growing angrier but yet hold my composure.
“Yes sir, everyday before breakfast and dinner.”
“Well that’s good, It seems to be doing wonders for you.”
I don’t respond. The man’s comments about the medicine are making me uncomfortable. I start to grow restless and tired. They drone on and on with stupid questions, basically chronicling every day I spent in this hellhole. But still I answer every inquiry with a sincerity and civility. The devils tell me to shut up and be pleasant. Soon, the parole board members’ body language becomes simple and forgiving. All signs point to a decision. The foreman turns to speak:
“Mr. Hutch, we’ve reached a decision. We’ve decided to grant you your release on the condition that you keep to your medicine schedule and check in with your parole officer three times a week. Your parole officer is Mr. John Berman. Here is his card. We thank you for being a model prisoner, and for that this is your reward.”
This is excellent news for me, but the devils in my head are now starting to dance. I calmly give my thanks and well-wishes to those on the board. My release is set for Thursday.
As I am escorted back to my cell, the demons become ceaseless. The constant pestering of voices and pain is becoming unbearable. The officer escorting me is the same from before. He is a new recruit, young, about 25 years old. He tries to make conversation but it turns out awkward.
“So Mikey, what do you plan to do on the outside?”
“I don’t know. Maybe find a job in construction or something.”
“ That’s good.”
“You hear the word on Phillips? Supposedly he got back on his feet and now is a manager at a Publix.”
“O that’s nice”
“Yeah, he seems to be doing great.”
The gremlins are dancing incessantly. I am excited and overly anxious.
“Mikey, what’s……”
Boom. One punch to the face and the young officer stumbles clumsily over the guardrail of the second story here at FCCF. I remember his expression as he fell to his death. Surprised. It took the young officer just five seconds to reach the cement floor of the first level. He dies instantly. I am immediately held down and subdued by a team of four officers.
The devils. The devils just keep dancing and dancing. Time stood out in a way that it never did before. It was inarguably the most memorable moment of my term here maybe even my life. Now strapped to a deathbed, I do realize the importance of those pills. I now have the great reward, and it is not parole. In this miserable life, the only reward is death. Everyday, I’m controlled by devils and am left groggy by a little pill. I just craved the end to this nightmare. The great reward was truly the only answer. Time just stood out that day, and I’ll thank it for being on my side. My name is Michael George Hutch, Case 2031779, and I will be the 141st man executed in the great state of Georgia.

08-07-2007, 03:41 PM
So, the greatest reward is not freedom, but death? Your teacher must have thought you were insane. Nicely written though.

08-07-2007, 04:06 PM
wow... well written but what did your teacher say?

08-07-2007, 04:47 PM
It was an extra credit assignment at the end of the year so I didnt get a grade

08-07-2007, 04:55 PM
thats kinda depressing, well written though

08-07-2007, 05:12 PM
Well written and good "vocab usage" for the most part, but it's very choppy at times, your period usage could stand to improve. Also, some of the phrases are a bit too colloquial, but again for the most part it was a good story.

08-07-2007, 05:30 PM
intresting, well written. Gets ya thinkin

Green Bay Scat
08-07-2007, 05:55 PM
im gonna be honest, i didnt read it.....lol

08-07-2007, 06:08 PM
that was pretty good....

of course you are a fellow fan... so anything you write has to be good:D

Mr. Stiller
08-07-2007, 06:23 PM
So, the greatest reward is not freedom, but death? Your teacher must have thought you were insane. Nicely written though.

To the man, Death was freedom...

08-07-2007, 07:35 PM
Interesting interpretation on the meaning of life, I have wondered myself whether or not what was the meaning of life and I for one believe that death could well be the meaning. In the grand scheme of the cosmos, our individual life span is a mere fleck of dust and yet people seem to ignore that and rather cling to meaningless things rather then a more grand philosophy. Your a sick individual fisch, but I digress as I am one in the same. Kudos on the story and thought process.

08-07-2007, 07:46 PM
Ernest Hemmingway? Is that you?

08-07-2007, 07:53 PM
To the man, Death was freedom...

He had to sit in the can for 20 years to figure that out? He could've gotten himself killed plenty of times, but he chooses to do it when they're letting him go? His demons must've screwed him up badly.

08-07-2007, 08:04 PM
He had to sit in the can for 20 years to figure that out? He could've gotten himself killed plenty of times, but he chooses to do it when they're letting him go? His demons must've screwed him up badly.

Schizophrenia is a major mental disorder, and some feel like a prisoner in their own minds.