Visiting the McIntoshs

Visiting the McIntoshs

He was with her. She knew it. Riona knew the cheating bastard was doing that blonde slut this very second. Like he did for the last couple of weeks.

Working late. That Glasgow project again, you know. Don’t stay up for me.

Standing at the kitchen island, one hand clenched around the stem of her wine glass, she stared into empty space, her jaw set, muscles working. Tightening. Straining. The clock at the far wall of the vast room headed for midnight, finding itself in agreement with the display of the double wall oven.

Pony Boot Camp — Part Three

Ponewo

Ours was the third barrack. Made of precast concrete parts and painted white, it looked exactly like barrack No. 2 or 4, save for the black “3” above the entrance. Inside, it offered a single big room; bunk beds, chests, showers in a separated area at the far end. One table with chairs. Full Metal Jacket, anyone?

Ten other girls who had arrived the day before us had already been habituated to barrack No. 3. Right now they were performing laundry duty, but since this would be my abode for the next ninety days, I would surely find an opportunity to befriend them. I’m all about making friends.

Pony Boot Camp — Part Two

Deepfall

It was the rigid cuffs and hobble chains for me again. The same attire I had sported many times since the trial two weeks ago – which was a bit over the top, if I were to be asked. I had taken the damn whip for some quick laps, not to pack its boot full of TNT and drive it into the next public building. But the new nation-wide zero-tolerance doctrine had diffused into all layers of the penal system. I only got a quick glance at the bus that would bring me and six other female prisoners to our new home. As soon as the steel door to the remand centre’s vast garage opened, the guard next to me pulled a hood over my head.

“Hey, what the fuck—”

“Shut up, or you get your bitchy mouth stuffed, too.”

Pony Boot Camp — Part One

Pony Boot Camp

Prologue (Law and Order)

It was either this, or two years without probation or parole. Maybe I’d really pushed it too far this time. My latest stunt crowned a dubious career that had started when I’d been fifteen, and with a true classic: shoplifting. Breach of the peace, public nuisance and damage to property had followed; they had even nicked me once for hacking the server of the public library (don’t ask what reason I’d done that for).

I forgot to introduce myself: My name is Alexia Wert. But you can call me Alex.