THE GREEN MILE BOOK PDF

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The story which begins in this little book exists in this form because of a . In any case, I've decided to publish The Green Mile in a series of. King, Stephen - The Green Mile palmdoc · Read more · King, Stephen - NOVEL - The Green Mile - Read more · King, Stephen - The Green Mile_0. Stephen King: The Green Mile. Pages · · KB · This book is available at quantity discounts for bulk downloads. For information the side of.


The Green Mile Book Pdf

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[PDF] Download The Green Mile: The Complete Serial Novel Ebook | READ ONLINE Download at. Based on the novel by. Stephen King Converted to PDF by ScreenTalk™ Online .. the duty desk, then cross the Green Mile--a wide corridor. About the Book. Welcome to Cold Mountain Penitentiary, home to the Depression -worn men of E Block. Convicted killers all, each awaits his.

In the case of Beverly Matuomi, it made no difference, anyway. The governor called the next day around three in the afternoon, commuting her sentence to life in the Grassy Valley Penal Facility for Women -- all penal and no penis, we used to say back then. I was glad to see Bev's round ass going left instead of right when she got to the duty desk, let me tell you.

Thirty-five years or so later -- had to be at least thirty-five -- I saw that name on the obituary page of the paper, under a picture of a skinny-faced black lady with a cloud of white hair and glasses with rhinestones at the corners.

It was Beverly.

She'd spent the last ten years of her life a free woman, the obituary said, and had rescued the small-town library of Raines Falls pretty much single-handed. She had also taught Sunday school and had been much loved in that little backwater. Only the eyes, wide and blazing behind the glasses with the rhinestones at the comers, were the same. They were the eyes of a woman who even at seventy-whatever would not hesitate to pluck a safety razor from its blue jar of disinfectant, if the urge seemed pressing.

You know murderers, even if they finish up as old lady librarians in dozey little towns. At least you do if you've spent as much time minding murderers as I did. There was only one time I ever had a question about the nature of my job.

That, I reckon, is why I'm writing this.

[PDF Download] The Green Mile [Download] Full Ebook

The wide corridor up the center of E Block was floored with linoleum the color of tired old limes, and so what was called the Last Mile at other prisons was called the Green Mile at Cold Mountain.

It ran, I guess, sixty long paces from south to north, bottom to top. At the bottom was the restraint room. At the top end was a T-junction. A left turn meant life -- if you called what went on in the sunbaked exercise yard life, and many did; many lived it for years, with no apparent ill effects. Thieves and arsonists and sex criminals, all talking their talk and walking their walk and making their little deals.

A right turn, though -- that was different. First you went into my office where the carpet was also green, a thing I kept meaning to change and not getting around to , and crossed in front of my desk, which was flanked by the American flag on the left and the state flag on the right.

On the far side were two doors. One led into the small W. This was where you ended up when you walked the Green Mile. It was a small door -- I had to duck my head when I went through, and John Coffey actually had to sit and scoot.

You came out on a little landing, then went down three cement steps to a board floor. It was a miserable room without heat and with a metal roof, just like the one on the block to which it was an adjunct.

It was cold enough in there to see your breath during the winter, and stifling in the summer. At the execution of Elmer Manfred -- in July or August of '30, that one was, I believe -- we had nine witnesses pass out. On the left side of the storage shed -- again -- there was life. Tools all locked down in frames crisscrossed with chains, as if they were carbine rifles instead of spades and pickaxes , dry goods, sacks of seeds for spring planting in the prison gardens, boxes of toilet paper, pallets cross-loaded with blanks for the prison plate-shop On the right -- once again -- death.

Old Sparky his ownself, sitting up on a plank platform at the southeast comer of the storeroom, stout oak legs, broad oak arms that had absorbed the terrorized sweat of scores of men in the last few minutes of their lives, and the metal cap, usually hung jauntily on the back of the chair, like some robot kid's beanie in a Buck Rogers comic-strip. A cord ran from it and through a gasket-circled hole in the cinderblock wall behind the chair. It was Beverly. She'd spent the last ten years of her life a free woman, the obituary said, and had rescued the small-town library of Raines Falls pretty much single-handed.

She had also taught Sunday school and had been much loved in that little backwater. Only the eyes, wide and blazing behind the glasses with the rhinestones at the comers, were the same.

The Bad Death of Eduard Delacroix

They were the eyes of a woman who even at seventy-whatever would not hesitate to pluck a safety razor from its blue jar of disinfectant, if the urge seemed pressing. You know murderers, even if they finish up as old lady librarians in dozey little towns.

At least you do if you've spent as much time minding murderers as I did. There was only one time I ever had a question about the nature of my job. That, I reckon, is why I'm writing this. The wide corridor up the center of E Block was floored with linoleum the color of tired old limes, and so what was called the Last Mile at other prisons was called the Green Mile at Cold Mountain. It ran, I guess, sixty long paces from south to north, bottom to top.

At the bottom was the restraint room. At the top end was a T-junction. A left turn meant life -- if you called what went on in the sunbaked exercise yard life, and many did; many lived it for years, with no apparent ill effects. Thieves and arsonists and sex criminals, all talking their talk and walking their walk and making their little deals. A right turn, though -- that was different.

First you went into my office where the carpet was also green, a thing I kept meaning to change and not getting around to , and crossed in front of my desk, which was flanked by the American flag on the left and the state flag on the right.

On the far side were two doors. One led into the small W. This was where you ended up when you walked the Green Mile. It was a small door -- I had to duck my head when I went through, and John Coffey actually had to sit and scoot.

You came out on a little landing, then went down three cement steps to a board floor. It was a miserable room without heat and with a metal roof, just like the one on the block to which it was an adjunct.

It was cold enough in there to see your breath during the winter, and stifling in the summer. At the execution of Elmer Manfred -- in July or August of '30, that one was, I believe -- we had nine witnesses pass out.

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On the left side of the storage shed -- again -- there was life. Tools all locked down in frames crisscrossed with chains, as if they were carbine rifles instead of spades and pickaxes , dry goods, sacks of seeds for spring planting in the prison gardens, boxes of toilet paper, pallets cross-loaded with blanks for the prison plate-shop On the right -- once again -- death.

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Old Sparky his ownself, sitting up on a plank platform at the southeast comer of the storeroom, stout oak legs, broad oak arms that had absorbed the terrorized sweat of scores of men in the last few minutes of their lives, and the metal cap, usually hung jauntily on the back of the chair, like some robot kid's beanie in a Buck Rogers comic-strip. A cord ran from it and through a gasket-circled hole in the cinderblock wall behind the chair.

Off to one side was a galvanized tin bucket. If you looked inside it, you would see a circle of sponge, cut just right to fit the metal cap. Before executions, it was soaked in brine to better conduct the charge of direct-current electricity that ran through the wire, through the sponge, and into the condemned man's brain. Try site.I know it was part of the book, but it also hurt the story going through.

Copy to Clipboard. Add another edition? Off to one side was a galvanized tin bucket. Are you sure you want to Yes No. Four was the most, mixed black and white at Cold Mountain, there was no segregation among the walking dead , and that was a little piece of hell.