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Marilyn looked about the dismal prison. She could hear people walking down beneath her on the street below. How she wished she could be free.
Her father had warned her about going to Haiti. But there was something that always intrigued and fascinated her about this tropical island.
“You could get in real trouble there,” her father shook his head grimly. “They practice voodoo and witchcraft. And I hear they can throw you in prison for the smallest thing.”
It was true, she had some books that might have been called revolutionary in her luggage. But she never thought that when she went through customs they would pay any attention to them. Now she was sitting in prison, considered a rebel.
At last a black-skinned prison guard came in to talk to her.
“Maybe I can help you,” he smiled.
“I’ve really done nothing wrong,” Marilyn told him. “I was reading some literature given to me by somebody else. I’m not here to ferment a revolution.”
The black guard grinned.
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.