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Privacy Policy. All Rights Reserved. Data also provided by. Skip Navigation. Markets Pre-Markets U. Key Points. Bureau of Prisons also placed two staffers at the Metropolitan Correctional Center who had been assigned to Epstein's cell unit on administrative leave pending ongoing investigations.

"Warden In The Sky" by Woody Guthrie

Epstein, a former friend of Presidents Donald Trump and Bill Clinton, was being held without bail on child sex trafficking charges at the time of his death. VIDEO Barr says there were 'serious irregularities' at jail where Epstein died. The Bottom Line. The Bureau of Prisons also did not respond for a request for comment. She sidles up to me, unable to leave me alone.

Her face is an inch from mine. Her breath is foul, her lips cave in with her effort to speak.

Bob Gunton: Warden Norton

The brownish, naked gums thrust forward like an ugly wall. I tried to open the big window once, so that she could feel the fresh rain against her skin. I pushed and pushed, but it would not give way. She watched me from her corner, a mischievous grin on her face.

But she was not always a toothless old woman. She was like a little girl—sometimes a mute and subdued one—the day after a visit from her husband in the big house. The day before, I combed her hair and plaited it tightly. The oil dripped from the tip of her braid. I knew how to make use of my chance; I never knew when he would come again, or when she would let me tidy her up next, like a meek little child-bride. It was always a moonless night when he came to her. She was at her quietest then, a tame, docile little thing. Basamma, she would beg me, as if she expected him, will you comb my hair properly?

And tie my sari? I have forgotten how. He was not such a humble supplicant. She does not need you now, he would say to me curtly from the door. And I was to make myself scarce for the next hour, but within earshot in case there was trouble. That white, white flower.

The Warden’s Oath

So cunning, so sweet-smelling. Teases and teases, all the petals are like crescent moons. Then it came nearer and the smell was like vomit. How else to protect it?


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Once she bit him, hard, her teeth had drawn blood on his arm. I had to run back to the outhouse, save him, hold her down, lock ourselves in. Shutting out her wild, frenzied screams, holding down her stick-like arms that had now grown powerful talons, I shot him a glance that said, Are you satisfied? He would have hit me, I know, if he had not been so frightened of her. I could have said a thing or two—shown him a few things as well—that would have straightened out his pretty, wavy hair for life. She is really a witch. I have seen her—why, a thousand times—taking away something that belongs to me.

The spell gets stronger that way. She hides my shit and even my bloody rags. She sweeps at midnight so that I cannot sleep. I know how to make signals—I learned it when I was very little. A beautiful bride-princess. When the blood trickled down like a long thin snake, all the way down to my knees, I scraped it off with fingers and pressed them, signals and signals, on the bare walls.

My tongue rolled out and wriggled across the dark shadows of the room.


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It wriggled like a long, long earthworm. When you looked, it played dead and you thought it was nothing.

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My father, that old gardener who planted one rotten seed every year, would have laughed and laughed at you. He had twenty servants, he slept with three every night.

by Louis Sachar

I can see it all—I turn and turn the mud like an earthworm. But shall I kiss you? Or send the worm crawling up your thick, scaly legs? When I came to them, my breasts were full and heavy.

The milk dripped like an open tap. I was ashamed to stand there in front of them, my sari damp and smelling of stale milk. A godsend, he called me, and brought the baby, a poor skinny little thing almost as lifeless as my own.

I took it from him greedily and put the tiny mouth to my swollen nipples. How he sucked! He drew and drew them out, his eyes closed in bliss, forehead damp with sweat, my chest light and empty with relief. The next two times my breasts were empty. They had shrunk, and my nipples were dry, brown berries, hard and unyielding. The outhouse is all ours now. No one comes here—the daughter-in-law, or her children, or the servants. Once every few days, the son—the one I held at my breast, the eldest and now the owner of the house and the compound—puts in an appearance at the smaller window, the one with the iron bars.

He peeps in, afraid she is awake. Is everything all right? Yes, now go away before she sees you, I tell him. The summer of was the ninth stop for yours truly on the great prison tour of my childhood. Every year a new town and a new prison to explore. I wasn't yet a murderer. Not at the beginning. Just the plain old son of a warden in jeans with permanent grass stains and threadbare sneakers that wore me more than I wore them. Life as the son of a Federal prison warden never felt weird until I turned I was still a naive little waif until that nasty summer when everything changed.

Now I sit here in my suit, so far removed from the boy of Virginia that I feel like I'm perfectly qualified to judge him.