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When we return from break, Mr. Tucker sets a tear gas launcher and canisters on the table. But with just this class, we could take it back. If we do not sign, he says, our training is over, which means our jobs end right here. Tucker says. The answer is yes. Five of us walk outside and stand in a row, arms linked.

Tucker tests the wind with a finger and drops a tear gas cartridge. A white cloud of gas washes over us. The object is to avoid panicking, staying in the same place until the gas dissipates. My throat is suddenly on fire and my eyes seal shut. I try desperately to breathe, but I can only choke. Tucker shouts at a cadet who is stumbling off blindly. I double over. I want to throw up. I hear a woman crying. My upper lip is thick with snot. When our breath starts coming back, the two women linked to me hug each other. I want to hug them too. The three of us laugh a little as tears keep pouring down our cheeks.

Our instructors advise us to carry a notebook to keep track of everything prisoners will ask us for. I keep one in my breast pocket and jet into the bathroom periodically to jot things down. They also encourage us to invest in a watch because when we document rule infractions it is important that we record the time precisely.

A few days into training, a wristwatch arrives in the mail. One of the little knobs on its side activates a recorder. On its face there is a tiny camera lens. When we go through security, we are told to empty our pockets and remove our shoes and belts. This is intensely nerve-wracking: I send my watch, pen, employee ID, and pocket change through the X-ray machine. I walk through the metal detector and a CO runs a wand up and down my body and pats down my chest, back, arms, and legs.

The other cadets and I gather at a barred gate and an officer, looking at us through thick glass, turns a switch that opens it slowly. We pass through, and after the gate closes behind us, another opens ahead. Yellow lines divide the pavement into three lanes. Clustered and nervous, we cadets travel up the middle lane from the administration building as prisoners move down their designated side lanes. I greet inmates as they pass, trying hard to appear loose and unafraid. Some say good morning. Others stop in their tracks and make a point of looking the female cadets up and down.

At the top of the T we take a left, past the chow hall and the canteen, where inmates can buy snacks, toiletries, tobacco, music players, and batteries. The units sit along the top of the walk. Every unit is named after a type of tree. Most are general population units, where inmates mingle in dorm-style halls and can leave for programs and chow. Cypress is the high-security segregation unit, the only one where inmates are confined to cells. In Dogwood, reserved for the best-behaved inmates, prisoners get special privileges like extra television time, and many work outside the unit in places like the metal shop, the garment factory, or the chow hall.

We enter Elm and walk onto an open, shiny cement floor. The air is slightly sweet and musty, like the clothes of a heavy smoker. Elm can house up to inmates. Separated from the floor by a locked gate, every tier is an open dormitory that houses up to 44 men, each with his own narrow bed, thin mattress, and metal locker. Toward the front of each tier, there are two toilets, a trough-style urinal, and two sinks.

There are two showers, open except for a three-foot wall separating them from the common area. Nearby are a microwave, a telephone, and a Jpay machine, where inmates pay to download songs onto their portable players and send short, monitored emails for about 30 cents each. Each tier also has a TV room, which fills up every weekday at p.

More than half are women, many of them single moms. But in Ash and Elm, the floor officers—who more than anyone else deal with the inmates face-to-face—are exclusively men. It is their job to conduct security checks every 30 minutes, walking up and down each tier to make sure nothing is awry.

Three times per hour shift, all movement in the prison stops and the floor officers count the inmates. There are almost never more than two floor officers per general population unit. He tells the female cadets to go to the key and the male cadets to line up along the showers and toilets at the front of the tier. We put on latex gloves.

The inmates are sitting on their beds. Two ceiling fans turn slowly. The room is filled with fluorescent light. Almost every prisoner is black. A small group of inmates get up from their beds and file into the shower area. One, his body covered with tattoos, gets in the shower in front of me, pulls off his shirt and shorts, and hands them to me to inspect. In one fluid motion, the man lifts his penis, opens his mouth, lifts his tongue, spins around with his ass facing me, squats, and coughs. He hands me his sandals and shows me the soles of his feet. I hand him his clothes and he puts his shorts on, walks past me, and nods respectfully.

Like a human assembly line, the inmates file in. He tells one inmate to open his hand. The inmate uncurls his finger and reveals a SIM card. Christian takes it but does nothing. Eventually, the TV room is full of prisoners. A guard looks at them and smiles. Each of us, women included, stops at a bed. Inside a container of Vaseline, I find a one-hitter pipe made out of a pen and ask Christian what to do with it. I go through the mattress, pillow, dirty socks, and underwear.

I flip through photos of kids, and of women posing seductively. I move on to new lockers: ramen, chips, dentures, hygiene products, peanut butter, cocoa powder, cookies, candy, salt, moldy bread, a dirty coffee cup. One instructor notices that I am carefully putting each object back where I found it and tells me to pull everything out of the lockers and leave it on the beds.

I look down the tier and see mattresses lying on the floor, papers and food dumped across beds. The middle of the floor is strewn with contraband: USB cables refashioned as phone chargers, tubs of butter, slices of cheese, and pills. I find some hamburger patties taken from the cafeteria. A guard tells me to throw them into the pile. Inmates are glued up against the TV room window, watching a young white cadet named Miss Stirling pick through their stuff. The attention makes her uncomfortable; she thinks the inmates are gross.

He cooked meth in their toolshed and once beat her so badly he dislocated her shoulder and knee. As we shake down the tier, a prisoner comes out of the TV room to get a better look at Miss Stirling, and she yells at him to go back in. He does. Most of our training is uneventful. Some days there are no more than two hours of classes, and then we have to sit and run the clock to p. Few of my fellow cadets have traveled farther than nearby Oklahoma. They compare towns by debating the size and quality of their Walmarts. Most are young.

They eat candy during break time, write their names on the whiteboard in cutesy lettering, and talk about different ways to get high. Miss Doucet, a stocky redheaded cadet in her late 50s, thinks that if kids were made to read the Bible in school, fewer would be in prison, but she also sticks pins in a voodoo doll to mete out vengeance. She lives in a camper with her daughter and grandkids. She worked at the lumber mill in Winnfield for years, but worsening asthma put an end to that. Miss Doucet and others from the class ahead of mine go to the front office to get their paychecks for their first two weeks of work.

When they return, the shoulders of a young cadet are slumping. Outwardly, Miss Doucet is jovial and cocky, but she is already making mental adjustments to her dreams. The double-wide trailer she imagines her grandkids spreading out in becomes a single-wide. At the end of one morning of doing nothing, the training coordinator tells us we can go to the gym to watch inmates graduate from trade classes.

Prisoners and their families are milling around with plates of cake and cups of fruit punch. An inmate offers a piece of red velvet to Miss Stirling. I stand around with Collinsworth, an year-old cadet with a chubby white baby face hidden behind a brown beard and a wisp of bangs. When he came to Winnfield to help out with family, this was the first job he could get. Once, Collinsworth was nearly kicked out of class after he jokingly threatened to stab Mr.

Tucker with a plastic training knife. As Collinsworth and I stand around, inmates gather to look at our watches. One, wearing a cocked gray beanie, asks to buy them. I refuse outright. Collinsworth dithers. You straight with that? The inmate says guards turn a blind eye to it. You might as well go with the flow. Get this free-ass, easy-ass money, and go home. I know a dude still rolling. Another lifts the podium over his head and runs with it across the gym.

The coach shouts, exasperated, as prisoners scramble around. Inmates run this bitch, son. A week later, Mr. Tucker tells us to come in early to do shakedowns. The sky is barely lit as I stand on the walk at with the other cadets. Collinsworth tells us another prisoner offered to buy his watch. The inmate declined. They got it on cards. Little money cards and shit. Collinsworth jumps up and down. Hell yeah. And I will not report it. Officially, inmates are only allowed to keep money in special prison-operated accounts that can be used at the canteen. Their families can also deposit money in the accounts.

The prepaid cash cards Willis is referring to are called Green Dots, and they are the currency of the illicit prison economy. Connections on the outside buy them online, then pass on the account numbers in encoded messages through the mail or during visits. Inmates with contraband cellphones can do all these transactions themselves, buying the cards and handing out strips of paper as payments for drugs or phones or whatever else. Miss Stirling divulges that an inmate gave her the digits of a money card as a Christmas gift.

I need a new MK watch. I need a new purse. I need some new jeans. I just keep it in the open. Tucker tells us to follow him. We shake down tiers all morning. By the time we finish at 11, everyone is exhausted. Christian pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and reads off a string of numbers in a show-offy way. Christian hands the slip of paper to one of the cadets, a middle-aged white woman. The metal door clicks open and we enter to a cacophony of shouting and pounding on metal. An alarm is sounding and the air smells strongly of smoke.

On one wall is a mural of a prison nestled among dark mountains and shrouded in storm clouds, lightning striking the guard towers and an enormous, screeching bald eagle descending with a giant pair of handcuffs in its talons. Toward the end of a long hall of cells, an officer in a black SWAT-style uniform stands ready with a pepper-ball gun. Another man in black is pulling burnt parts of a mattress out of a cell. Cypress can hold up to inmates; most of the eight-by-eight-foot cells have two prisoners in them.

The cells look like tombs; men lie in their bunks, wrapped in blankets, staring at the walls. Many are lit only by the light from the hallway. In one, an inmate is washing his clothes in his toilet. He grips my hand. SORT teams are trained to suppress riots, rescue hostages, extract inmates from their cells, and neutralize violent prisoners.

I get a whiff of feces that quickly becomes overpowering. On one of the tiers, a brown liquid oozes out of a bottle on the floor. Food, wads of paper, and garbage are all over the ground. I spot a Coke can, charred black, with a piece of cloth sticking out of it like a fuse. No rec time. We just sit in our cells all day. What else are we going to do? You know how we get these officers to respect us? Either that or throw them to the floor. Then they respect us. I ask one of the regular white-shirted COs what an average day in seg looks like. They are supposed to walk up and down the eight tiers every 30 minutes to check on the inmates, but he says they never do that.

CCA says it had no knowledge of guards at Winn skipping security checks before I inquired about it. Collinsworth is walking around with a big smile on his face. The sound explodes down the cement hallway. Collinsworth and the CO he is shadowing move another inmate from his cell. The inmate tries to walk ahead as the CO holds him. I take a few inmates out of their cells, too, walking each one a hundred feet or so to disciplinary court with my hand around one of his elbows.

One pulls against my grip. A SORT officer rushes over and grabs him. My heart races. Mother Jones is a nonprofit. Your support allows us to go where others in the media do not: Make a tax-deductible monthly or one-time gift. One of the white-shirted officers takes me aside. If he keeps going, we are authorized to knee him in the back of the leg and drop him to the concrete. Inmates shout at me as I walk back down the tier. I like them holes in your ears, CO.

Come in here with me. Give me that booty! At lunchtime, Collinsworth, Reynolds, and I go back to the training room. Your support allows us to go where others in the media do not: Make a tax-deductible donation today. That we are scraping the bottom of the barrel. I actually took their pictures and fingerprinted them. There is much about the history of CCA the video does not teach. The idea of privatizing prisons originated in the early s with Beasley and fellow businessman Doctor Robert Crants. The year after Hutto joined CCA, he became the head of the American Correctional Association, the largest prison association in the world.

Beasley and Crants ran the business a lot like a hotel chain, charging the government a daily rate for each inmate. The s were a good time to get into the incarceration business. The prison population was skyrocketing, the drug war was heating up, the length of sentences was increasing, and states were starting to mandate that prisoners serve at least 85 percent of their terms.

Prisons in many states were filled beyond capacity. The bid was unsuccessful, but it planted an idea in the minds of politicians across the country: They could outsource prison management and save money in the process. Privatization also gave states a way to quickly expand their prison systems without taking on new debt.

In the perfect marriage of fiscal and tough-on-crime conservatism, the companies would fund and construct new lockups while the courts would keep them full. Today, it runs more than 60 facilities, from state prisons and jails to federal immigration detention centers. All together, CCA houses at least 66, inmates at any given time. Whatever taxpayer money CCA receives has to cover the cost of housing, feeding, and rehabilitating inmates.

Two-thirds of the private-prison contracts recently reviewed by the anti-privatization group In the Public Interest had these prisoner quotas. The main argument in favor of private prisons—that they save taxpayers money—remains controversial. One study estimated that private prisons cost 15 percent less than public ones; another found that public prisons were 14 percent cheaper. The pressure to squeeze the most out of every penny at Winn seems evident not only in our paychecks, but in decisions that keep staffing and staff-intensive programming for inmates at the barest of levels.

Two weeks after I start training, Chase Cortez his real name decides he has had enough of Winn. But in the middle of a cool, sunny December day, he climbs onto the roof of Birch unit. He lies down and waits for the patrol vehicle to pass along the perimeter. Now, a single CO watches the video feeds from at least 30 cameras. Cortez sees the patrol van pass, jumps down from the back side of the building, climbs the razor-wire perimeter fence, and then makes a run for the forest. He fumbles through the dense foliage until he spots a white pickup truck left by a hunter.

Lucky for him, it is unlocked, with the key in the ignition. In the control room, an alarm sounds, indicating that someone has touched the outer fence, a possible sign of a perimeter breach. The officer reaches over, switches the alarm off, and goes back to whatever she was doing.

She notices nothing on the video screen, and she does not review the footage. Hours pass before the staff realizes someone is missing. Some guards tell me it was an inmate who finally brought the escape to their attention. Cortez is caught that evening after the sheriff chases him and he crashes the truck into a fence. When I come in the next morning, the prison is on lockdown. Staff are worried CCA is going to lose its contract with Louisiana. CCA said nothing publicly about the escape; I heard about it from guards who had investigated the incident or been briefed by the warden.

Later that day, Reynolds and I bring food to Cypress, the segregation unit. A naked man is shouting frantically for food, mercilessly slapping the plexiglass at the front of his cell. In the cell next to him, a small, wiry man is squatting on the floor in his underwear. His arms and face are scraped with little cuts. A guard tells me to watch him. It is Cortez. I offer him a packet of Kool-Aid in a foam cup. He says thank you, then asks if I will put water in it. There is no water in his cell. When inmates are written up for breaking the rules, they are sent to inmate court, which is held in a room in the corner of Cypress unit.

One day, our class files into the small room to watch the hearings. Miss Lawson, the assistant chief of security, is acting as the judge, sitting at a desk in front of a mural of the scales of justice. This is not a court of law, although it issues punishments for felonies such as assault and attempted murder. An inmate who stabs another may end up facing new criminal charges. He may be transferred, yet prisoners and guards say inmates who stab others typically are not shipped to a higher-security prison. According to the DOC, Winn inmates charged with serious rule violations are found guilty at least 96 percent of the time.

The inmate counsel represents other inmates in the internal disciplinary process. Every year, he is taken to a state-run prison for intensive training. Miss Lawson later tells me that inmate counsel never really influences her decisions. The absent inmate is accused of coming too close to the main entrance. Trahan is found guilty. He is being considered for release from segregation. What did he say? The next inmate, an orderly in Cypress, enters. He is charged with being in an unauthorized area because he took a broom to sweep the tier during rec time, which is not the authorized time to sweep the tier.

He starts to explain that a CO gave him permission. Miss Lawson cuts him off. Fuck them! The majority of the staff, Miss Blanchard says, are gold—dutiful, punctual people who value rules. My results show that green is my dominant color analytical, curious and orange is my secondary free and spontaneous. Green is a rare personality type at Winn. The company that markets the test claims that people who retake it get the same results 94 percent of the time. But Miss Blanchard says that after working here awhile, people often find their colors have shifted.

Gold traits tend to become more dominant. Studies have shown that personalities can change dramatically when people find themselves in prison environments. Some became sadistic, forcing the prisoners to sleep on concrete, sing and dance, defecate into buckets, and strip naked. The situation became so extreme that the two-week study was cut short after just six days.

The question the study posed still lingers: Are the soldiers of Abu Ghraib, or even Auschwitz guards and ISIS hostage-takers, inherently different from you and me? One day during our third week of training I am assigned to work in the chow hall. My job is to tell the inmates where to sit, filling up one row of tables at a time. We just learned that in class. Inmates file through the chow line and I point them to their tables. One man sits at the table next to the one I directed him to. The supervisor is watching.

Hundreds of inmates can see me. I get the muscle-bound captain, who comes and tells the inmate to do what I say. The inmate gets up and sits at a third table. Project confidence. Project power.

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I tell inmates to take off their hats as they enter. They listen to me, and a part of me likes that. For the first time, for just a moment, I forget that I am a journalist. I watch for guys sitting with their friends rather than where they are told to. I scan the room for people sneaking back in line for more food. I tell inmates to get up and leave while they are still eating. I look closely to make sure no one has an extra cup of Kool-Aid. Out in the back of the prison, not far from where Chase Cortez hopped the fence, there is a barn.

Miss Blanchard, another cadet, and I step inside the barn office. Country music is playing on the radio. Halters, leashes, and horseshoes hang on the walls. Three heavyset white COs are inside. They do not like surprise visits. One spits into a garbage can. The men and their inmate trusties take care of a small herd of horses and three packs of bloodhounds.

The COs used to mount them with shotguns and oversee hundreds of inmates who left the compound every day to tend the grounds. The shotguns had to be put to use when, occasionally, an inmate tried to run for it.

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We can always get another inmate, though. Prisoners and officers alike talk nostalgically about the time when the men spent their days working outside, coming back to their dorms drained of restless energy and aggression. The work program was dropped around the same time that guards were taken out of the towers. Many vocational programs at Winn have been axed. The hobby shops have become storage units; access to the law library is limited.

We did! Do it the right way. When we step inside the kennel, the bloodhounds bay and howl. Gary kicks the door of one cage and a dog lunges at his foot. There is a red hole under his chin and a gash down his throat. He might walk back here two miles. He holds up the picture of the guy with the throat bite. We are standing around outside; most cadets are smoking cigarettes. He wears a baseball cap low over his eyes. We got something-plus facilities. If they not making no money at Winn Correctional Center, guess what?

Kenny is detached and cool. There are rules, and they are meant to be followed. This goes both ways: When he has any say, he makes sure inmates get what they are entitled to. He prides himself on his fairness. Everyone deserves a chance at redemption. Still, we must never let inmates forget their place.

They real educated. Kenny makes me nervous. He notices that I am the only one in class who takes notes.

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One day, he tells us that he sits on the hiring committee. He then glances at me. I know what your name is. I chuckle nervously. He has to know. I test my staff to test their loyalty. I report to the warden about what I see. Over Christmas week, I am stationed in the mail room with a couple of other cadets to process the deluge of holiday letters.

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The woman in charge, Miss Roberts, demonstrates our task: Slice the top of each envelope, cut the back off and throw it in the trash, cut the postage off the front, staple what remains to the letter, and stamp it: Inspected. I presume this is for the same reason we remove stamps; crayon could be a vehicle for drugs. There are so many letters from children—little hands outlined, little stockings glued to the inside of cards—that we rip out and throw in the trash. I love you and miss you so much daddy, but we are doing good.

Rick Jr. He gets into everything. I have not forgot you daddy. I love you. There are also titles on the list about black history and culture, like Huey: Spirit of the Panther ; Faces of Africa ; Message to the Blackman in America , by Elijah Muhammad; and an anthology of news articles called Years of Lynchings.

She is familiar with many of the correspondents from reading about the intimate details of their lives. I feel like a voyeur, but the letters draw me in. I am surprised at how many are from former inmates with lovers still at Winn. Baby my heart is broken and I am so unhappy.

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Samuel Johnson The History of the Necronomicon. George Orwell. Blackstone Audio presents a new recording of this immensely popular book. George Orwell depicts a gray, totalitarian world dominated by Big Brother and its vast network of agents, including the Thought Police, a world in which news is manufactured according to the authorities' will and people live tepid lives by rote. Winston Smith, the hero with no heroic qualities, longs only for truth and decency.

But living in a social system in which privacy does not exist and where those with unorthodox ideas are brainwashed or put to death, he knows there is no hope for him. He knows even as he continues to pursue his forbidden love affair that eventually he will come to destruction. The year has come and gone, yet George Orwell's nightmare vision in of the world we were becoming is still the great modern classic of negative Utopia.

Running Blind. Book 4. Across the country, women are being murdered, victims of a disciplined and clever killer who leaves no trace evidence, no fatal wounds, no signs of struggle, and no clues to an apparent motive. They are, truly, perfect crimes. Trouble is brewing. It's been more than a year since Team CFVY saw their school destroyed by the creatures of Grimm, their friends felled in battle or scattered across the world of Remnant.

Since then, they've been settling into life at Shade Academy in Vacuo, fighting hard to finish their training so they can find their friends and save their world. When a distress message comes into Shade, asking for huntsmen and huntresses to defend refugees from a never-ending stream of Grimm, Team CFVY answers the call without hesitation.

But in the heat of the desert, they're forced to relive their former battles, both from the fall of Beacon and from everything that came before. Don't miss this exclusive original story straight from award-winning author E. The Mister. E L James. London, Life has been easy for Maxim Trevelyan. Just who is Alessia Demachi? Can Maxim protect her from the malevolence that threatens her? From the heart of London through wild, rural Cornwall to the bleak, forbidding beauty of the Balkans, The Mister is a roller-coaster ride of danger and desire that leaves the reader breathless to the very last page.

Eloisa James. If he wins…she is his, for one wild night. Melt: Steel Brothers Saga 4. Editorial Reviews "The chemistry in Melt is explosive! He failed in the worst way. Shadow Warrior. Vittorio Ferraro is a man whose family loyalty knows no bounds. He would die for his siblings and the people they love, but what he really wants is to start a family of his own.

Deep down, Vittorio has always known finding a woman who could ride shadows would be nearly impossible—let alone one who could accept his particular needs—and he never expected to find her in the middle of a kidnapping. But Grace knows her presence is putting the entire Ferraro family in danger. Her monster of a brother will never let her go, but Vittorio has no intention of losing the woman whose shadow matches his own.

If you love hot men, sexy women, the good guys winning against the bad guys, love both sweet and ultra steamy , and family that stands together, then this book is all that and even more. The Murder House. James Patterson. Detective Jenna Murphy comes to the Hamptons to solve a murder-but what she finds is more deadly than she could ever imagine. Trying to escape her troubled past and rehabilitate a career on the rocks, former New York City cop Jenna Murphy hardly expects her lush and wealthy surroundings to be a hotbed of grisly depravity.

But when a Hollywood power broker and his mistress are found dead in the abandoned Murder House, the gruesome crime scene rivals anything Jenna experienced in Manhattan. And what at first seems like an open and shut case turns out to have as many shocking secrets as the Murder House itself, as Jenna quickly realizes that the mansion's history is much darker than even the town's most salacious gossips could have imagined.

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As more bodies surface, and the secret that Jenna has tried desperately to escape closes in on her, she must risk her own life to expose the truth-before the Murder House claims another victim. Full of the twists and turns that have made James Patterson the world's 1 bestselling writer, The Murder House is a chilling, page-turning story of murder, money, and revenge. Return to Zero. Book 3. This fast-paced, action-packed adventure—which is set in the world of I Am Number Four—is perfect for fans of the Darkest Minds series and the X-Men franchise.


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Book 1. There his family dwells in peace and comfort: his proud wife, Catelyn; his sons Robb, Brandon, and Rickon; his daughters Sansa and Arya; and his bastard son, Jon Snow. Far to the north, behind the towering Wall, lie savage Wildings and worse—unnatural things relegated to myth during the centuries-long summer, but proving all too real and all too deadly in the turning of the season. Yet a more immediate threat lurks to the south, where Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, has died under mysterious circumstances. All are heading for Winterfell and a fateful encounter that will change the course of kingdoms.

Meanwhile, across the Narrow Sea, Prince Viserys, heir of the fallen House Targaryen, which once ruled all of Westeros, schemes to reclaim the throne with an army of barbarian Dothraki—whose loyalty he will purchase in the only coin left to him: his beautiful yet innocent sister, Daenerys.

The Magicians. Beyond that, Quentin's life is dull until he finds himself admitted to a very secret, exclusive college of magic in Upstate New York, where he receives a thorough and rigorous education in the practice of modern sorcery. Game of Thrones. Based on the characters from Archie Comics, Riverdale is a bold drama with a subversive take on a surreal, small-town life. As a new school year begins, the town of Riverdale is reeling from the tragic death of high school golden boy Jason Blossom — and nothing feels the same.

High Maintenance. To his clients, he is simply known as 'The Guy,' a bike-riding pot-delivery man played by Ben Sinclair who brings viewers into the homes and routines of a variety of NYC characters, each with a different compelling reason for doing business with him. Bless This Mess.

A single camera comedy about a newlywed couple who gives up their drab and unfulfilling lives in NYC and moves to Nebraska to live a simpler life. The Flash. This lightning-paced super hero drama follows the high-speed adventures of the Fastest Man Alive.

After an unexpected accident at a Particle Accelerator, police scientist and everyday guy Barry Allen finds himself suddenly charged with the ability to move at incredible speeds, which he uses to help the people of Central City. What We Do in the Shadows. After an unexpected visit from their dark lord and leader, the vampires are reminded of what they were initially tasked with upon their arrival in New York over a century ago — total and complete domination of the New World. But what exactly is the best way to go about achieving said domination? He and his physician wife, Rainbow Tracee Ellis Ross , are living the American dream: great careers, four beautiful kids, and a colonial home in an upper middle class neighborhood.

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Now, this team of highly skilled intelligence professionals will have to find a way to work together to occasionally save the world while navigating the rocky roads of friendship, romance and office politics. From murder and espionage to terrorism and stolen submarines, these special agents travel the globe to investigate all crimes with Navy or Marine Corps ties. New releases. Book Lost and Found: A Novel.

Danielle Steel. What might have been? It all starts with a fall from a ladder, in a firehouse in New York City. The firehouse has been converted into a unique Manhattan home and studio where renowned photographer Madison Allen works and lives after raising three children on her own. But the accident, which happens while Maddie is sorting through long-forgotten personal mementos and photos, results in more than a broken ankle. It changes her life. Spurred by old memories, the forced pause in her demanding schedule, and an argument with her daughter that leads to a rare crisis of confidence, Maddie embarks on a road trip.

Wearing a cast and driving a rented SUV, she sets off to reconnect with three very different men—one in Boston, one in Chicago, and another in Wyoming—to know once and for all if the decisions she made long ago were the right ones. Before moving forward into the future, she is compelled to confront the past. Summer of ' Elin Hilderbrand.

Four siblings experience the drama, intrigue, and upheaval of a summer when everything changed, in New York Times bestselling author Elin Hilderbrand's first historical novel Welcome to the most tumultuous summer of the twentieth century. It's , and for the Levin family, the times they are a-changing. Every year the children have looked forward to spending the summer at their grandmother's historic home in downtown Nantucket.

But like so much else in America, nothing is the same: Blair, the oldest sister, is marooned in Boston, pregnant with twins and unable to travel. Middle sister Kirby, caught up in the thrilling vortex of civil rights protests and determined to be independent, takes a summer job on Martha's Vineyard.

Only-son Tiger is an infantry soldier, recently deployed to Vietnam. No matter: this is a beaut, the three mafioso looming in shadows over a victim like Italian-American phantoms. The best British film poster ever? Rare is the artwork that manages to sum up a national mood, a subculture, a generation and a film all at once.

Perhaps it was the stance a mostly-nude Woody Harrelson took, in a crucifixion pose; perhaps it was his stars-and-stripes makeshift underwear; or perhaps it was that he was makeshift underwear for some giant, unseen woman. The most iconic logo in cinema? Without doubt. Neil Fujita. In simple black-and-white, it tells us everything we need to know. Because time travel. Interestingly, the navel on display does not, in fact, belong to Suvari but is the displaced midriff of Chloe Hunter.

Fact: it and she also appears in Leprechaun 5: Leprechaun in The Hood. No frills here but then none were needed. Testament to the fact that sometimes less is more.