The Primaries, Part II

As I sit in my oasis, I flip through the pages of my beaten-up copy of The Great Gatsby, soaking up my last few hours of imprisoned peace. I should be happy to finally leave this place. Why do I have this feeling that I am safer behind these walls? The yard bells ring. A…

The Primaries, Part I

I wake up — every day the same as the last. I put on my grey jumper and tattered pants, attempt to smooth out my noticeably tangled golden hair, and wait by the wrought iron gates. A piece of broken glass across from my cell serves as my mirror. I catch myself staring at the…