Heart On A Bayonet – Act One 

Synopsis: Wrongly convicted, a once prominent woman finds herself looking for life’s true purpose.

Caution: This story contains graphic content – at least in word form that is.

Note: Written in third person. Italics indicate the main protagonist’s inner monologue.

“The defendant is found guilty of all charges…”

The smack of the Judge’s gavel is only thing she remembers that day in the court room.

Sentenced to three consecutive life sentences, Catherine, a well known author, looses everything she ever busted her skull for. The editing company disassociated all connections with her, coworkers burned her books, friends practically alienated her.

They called her a monster. Spreading false rumors namely smearing her as a “30 year drug addict with nothing better to do.”

But the truth is, she never harmed a living soul.

There was a young lad about 5 years old, who was a big fan of her books. Science fiction about the unknown universe.

And especially the nonfiction about corruption, the beauty of life, and what more there is to seek out in the world.

Seeing as the two lived near one another, he never hesitated to sneak out more than a thousand times to discuss theories and the universe.


Work. Seems like our only purpose. What you want to be when you grow up is just another way of sugar coating the question of how you’d like to sell your labor.

But if you do ever make it out, find something to live for… you maybe even start to love life…Maybe

If there’s one thing I love about my job, it’s working on the stories we create with the actors. Turning books into film. Its like dancing on an immeasurable ball room floor. Time infinitely ticking by, but we sway side to side without a care in the world.

I heard an echo of laughter. It filled me with joy – until I realized it wasn’t what I thought. The yelling rose higher, the shadow of rage turned me into a pale, still figure. When it crashed onto me like a bitter, frigid flood, I found myself crippled by the oncoming waves. Then, I saw him standing there. A small child with auburn hair and a smile that would light up the entire sky.

His parents were now screaming, mouth foaming like a rabid animal, eyes turning blood red; all in the name of greed. But this young lad stood up straight, proud and strong. Just as resilient and rebellious as I as was; as I am.


The sound of them hitting him crackled through the still air. As Elie Wiesel put it, “I could have screamed my anger.” Indeed, I could’ve choked the life out of his supposed care givers. But this gent did not dare wince in pain. And to wish hurt upon others was never something I’d do. Not even to the worst of us.

They left in a huff. Leaving the child behind. Child. I always despised that word, even more so when I was called as such.

I hesitated. For a 1/4th of a second I hesitated. Albeit having my heart ripped out then suspended before my fading eyes on a bayonet. Hanging there, taunting me, like a tortured dog and a slab of meat.

It was as if the Earth stopped spinning. Standing more rigid than a marble statue, he looked like an immovable rock, an unbreakable force. Seemed like we were both lost in thought. Snapping out of my daydream, I walked towards him. As I inched closer, he now flinched at the sound of my shoe, squeaking on the tile. 

I stood before him. Bending down to be within his height, I dared to reach out, gently lifting his chin to eye level. He looked up, into my eyes he stared. And I into his.

I was immersed into this child’s world once I saw myself in his deep blue eyes. I saw the same anger that once burned within me. I felt the pain in him that I felt exactly at his age.

Damn kid’s 5 years old and his parents are already making him pick a college and a full time job. Looking into his eyes, I saw myself. I saw his heart eaten away, his being, his mind being stripped away bit by bit in order to become the perfect machine. Piece by piece they took the innocence from him…



They blame her for his death…
Three consecutive life sentences…
She escapes in less than a week with the help of some inmates. They seek redemption, too. She promises justice to those wrongly committed.

Maybe I am a criminal. 

In the prison and throughout the many jobs on the outside world I worked, I often overheard coworkers chat amongst themselves on why I haven’t ended my life already. 

Maybe its the Scotch; the lingering taste on my tongue. 

Maybe its the feeling of accomplishing things out of spite. 

Maybe I just don’t care either way and have become too much of a coward to get the job done myself. 

Or maybe I do care but too much. Not for myself, but for the people around me. Maybe I fear I’ll become a burden if I don’t do it right. 

Maybe I may even enjoy their presence and through our differences we always manage to find common ground.


The love-hate relationship with life and no purpose. Answers dangled in front of me like a piece of meat. Blamed as the cause for everyone else’s problems as if I chose to be brought into the world just like the child I befriended who was constantly lectured; told he was a mistake. Whatever the reason, no matter what we do, our value will always be measured by someone else’s – for instance if your own family hated you from birth, so will the majority. You’re a rug rat especially if they say mom should’ve swallowed you. 

But to folks reading this, to whoever finds these jumble of notes of random thoughts I’ve written hastily in the night, keep in mind these aren’t my views – these are from the eyes of the gossiping corporate greed. Sticking their noses in other peoples lives and business in hope to gain something for themselves. These are from the negative minds of the people. 

Act two releases within a few days or less and will include more back story. 


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