Ed Griffin teaches creative writing at Matsqui Prison, a medium security prison in Western Canada. He taught the same subject at Waupun prison, a maximum security prison in Wisconsin. He began his professional life in 1962 as a Roman Catholic priest in Cleveland, Ohio. There he became active in the civil rights movement and marched in Selma with Doctor Martin Luther King. Removed from a suburban parish for his activities, he served for three years in Cleveland's central city. His years in the Roman Catholic Priesthood are the subject of his next novel. After leaving the priesthood in 1968 he earned a masters degree at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee and was elected to Milwaukee's city council in 1972. Griffin and his wife, Kathy, opened a commercial greenhouse in suburban Milwaukee in 1976. They lived where they worked and shared the joys of raising children and growing flowers. In 1988 the family, Ed and Kathy, Kevin and Kerry, moved to British Columbia, Canada, where Griffin helped establish a dynamic writing community in the city of Surrey. He is the founder of Western Canada's largest writer's conference, the Surrey Writers' Conference. He has published poetry, plays, short stories and a newspaper column. His writing has won several awards and the American Humanist Society has honored him as the teacher of a prize-winning inmate writer. Griffin believes that all the arts, including writing, should be encouraged in prison. As Aristotle said, 'art releases unconscious tensions and purges the soul.' Visit the author's web site.
One of the most dangerous local phenomena occurring in the Aleutians is the "Williwaw." This is a type of wind which results from the damming up of air on windward slopes followed by an overflow of air down the leeward slopes. These gusts often are in excess of 60 knots.
U.S. Navy publication, Welcome to Adak
Chapter 1
Melt the bars, Frank. Walk through them. Frank Villa heard his cell mate hammering at him in his mind. Melt the bars. You're a person, not an inmate.
The guard blocked his passage down the narrow tier. "Inmate Villa, I repeat, 'Throw away the cigarette.'"
Frank showed his two hands. "I'm not smoking."
"On your ear, Inmate Villa, there's a cigarette."
Frank reached up. Sure enough. He had rolled a smoke for his walk back to the cell block, but the teacher he worked for had called him back into the classroom. Frank took the cigarette off his ear and palmed it. "It's not lit, see?"
"Throw it away." The cell block guard pointed to the trash can at the end of the tier.
Frank hesitated. Throw it away? The equivalent of fifty cents in prison money, an hour's work. Throw it away?
"Inmate Villa, I said now."
Again his cell mate's words: Melt the bars, Frank. Lose the battle, win the war.
He threw the smoke into the can and continued down the tier toward his cell. He bounced his left hand along the bars as he went, to let his anger dissipate into the steel. Prison sucked the balls out of a man and left him as a passive shell.
Through fourteen years in prison he had earned a masters in sociology, become a tutor and stayed out of trouble. And still he was Inmate Villa, nothing more.
Frank grabbed the last bar of his open cell door and pivoted himself in. He smelled the tea Rudy had brewed for him, strong morning tea. It was 11:15. Rudy sat lotus style on the top bunk, reading. The winter sun shone through the barred window on the outer wall and cast a shadow across his face and down over the book he was reading.
Frank stared at the image of the bar. It was Rudy who had taught him all about bars, fourteen years ago. "Melt the bars," Rudy first told him a long time ago when he came to prison. "Walk into the world of knowledge, Frank, and the bars will disappear. Freedom is inside you."