I'm rubbish at writing short stories. In general I prefer writing novels, and I'm about 50,000 words into my current project (*makes happy smiles*), but I do try to push my boundaries a bit by writing in ways that I dislike to increase my experience. Here's where it got me:

Wronged

As the man lay in his bed, he heard the crunch of heavy boots on the gravel outside. He raised his head and arms, and pulled the curtains aside so as to peer out. It was the Sargent and his men.

''Damn it,'' he swore, ''now what do they want?''

As the Sargent banged on the door, the man hastily got up and pulled on his dressing gown. He then went to the door and apprehensively opened it.

''Yes?''

''Is this yours?'' the Sargent said, showing the man a pistol.

The man examined the pistol for a moment.

''Yes,'' he replied, ''why?''

''Take him away, constables,'' the Sargent said.

***

And so the man was dragged away into the Black Maria, and taken down to the Police Barracks. In all this time, not one person told him what this whole affair was about. Finally as the dawn broke, the Sargent came into his cell.

''Where were you last night?''

''I'm sorry, but I may not tell you. What is this about anyway?''
The Sargent slammed a pistol down on the table.

''This was found outside of Bearings last night, that bank was robbed. You know what this means.''

''All I can confirm, is that I have enough money not to be worrying about robbing banks. I cannot, and will not tell you where I was last night, not even under pain of death. It would hurt a lot of people.''

The man thought back over the previous night, the scent of Anne's hair, her beauty... but he couldn't disclose what had gone on... she was a married woman, and it would destroy her. Not to mention him. John, her
husband was his best friend.

''You seem like an honest man, and the Crown Prosecution Service hates putting innocent people behind bars, but right now we have all the evidence we need to prosecute you for one of the largest robberies in the history of the United Kingdom. You're doing yourself a lot of trouble, and if that scoundrel is out there, the you have the responsibility of giving us an alibi so we can look in other directions.''

''If I was to give you the alibi that I have, I would throw myself in the Thames for shame, because of the harm it would do to those that I hold dear.''

''Then my friend, you should go and put your stolen money to good use by hiring a Barrister.''

***

''What way does he plead?'' the judge sternly asked the man's barrister.

''Not guilty, Judge,'' the barrister replied.

As the trial continued, the man sat lost in thought. Evidence was given regarding the location of the pistol, and the statement he made, confirming that it belonged to him. And his own refusal to say where he was that fateful night, was seen as being evidence in it's own right.

***

''In the name of the almighty lord, see sense,'' the man's barrister pleaded. ''At the very least, tell me where you were that night. I have the responsibility of defending you, and I must know if you are guilty or not, for my own conscience.''

''I'm sorry,'' the man said, ''but it would hurt a lot of innocent people, if I would do that, even to tell only you.''

''I can't understand how any simple fact, is more important than your freedom. We have one last chance at this. One last day. Speak up, you are innocent, you know you are innocent, now go out there and clear your name.''

''I'm sorry, but my conscience won't let me.''

''Then you are a fool.''

''Maybe, but a fool with a conscience. I swore an oath, that I would keep those events that happened that night a secret, and if it means that I will spend my life behind bars, then so be it.''

***

Finally the judge asked, ''how do you find the defendant?''
To which juror number four replied, ''Guilty as charged.''
The man knew that this was one cruel set up. But who had done it, and why? Anne and himself had kept their affair secret enough, but in England, of 1862, their Anglican neighbours weren't ready to here what they had to say.

For ten years he would stay in Botany Bay. As he was led into the ship, he beheld Anne weeping as John comforted her. As he turned away, he swore he saw John grin at him. One last grin. Now his suspicions were confirmed.
For ten long years he would count the days, reading her letters, awaiting his eventual release. For ten long years she too would count the days, reading his letters, awaiting his return from Australia, watching as each boat sailed up the Thames, while knowing deep in her heart, she could have saved him.

Across the oceans, across the seas
For ten long years she'll weep salt tears
As the waves do crash upon the rocky shore
He'll await the letters that come through his cell door.

But as love is a fickle thing
Some day this poor man's letters will cease coming
And as the man steps from the prison ship to shore
The woman will have long ceased to wait him any more

Wow, very nice. had me hooked. I was wonderin who it was the whole time and when u said he grinned i was dumbfounded. love your writing style keep it up