PRISON

A piece of nonesense...

     The jangle of the keys gives him away. He moves silently, but their ringing tells me he’s coming. As always, he brings me lunch. Or breakfast or supper. It doesn’t matter. I only get one meal a day, two slices of stale bread and a cup of water. Barely looking at me, he slides them through the bars far enough that my chained hands can reach them. As always, I ask “When are you going to let me out of here?” As always, he doesn’t answer, but leaves without a backward glance.

 

     I’m never hungry now, but I eat, because it’s something to do. Uselessly, I speculate: Why was I captured and brought here? Will I ever be free? Why am I imprisoned by a jailor who doesn’t even know me? Eventually, because it’s something to do, I fall asleep.

 

     I wake to fog, and then the fog parts, and it’s as if I’m waking again. This time I know the truth. I built this prison myself, forged the bars, snapped the manacles on my wrists and ankles. The first moment I looked at you, I was captured, bound. Seeing your uncaring face daily is my only food. “I love you,” I say, stretching my hands out as far as they will go. “Oh, how I love you…”

Reviews

[Workvio]

An interesting concept lived out by far too many in bad relationships ...

[steve]

The first time I read this I was a little confused, not because it's bad in anyway, but reading it again I think it's about a woman trapped in a loveless marriage, but she is too scared to change it, and her husband is a control freak who keeps her isolated in the house, while all she desires from him, is for the man she married to love her back. Very deep and very good.

[Marie]

Actually this is about a woman who has imprisioned herself inside a hopeless love. Although your interpretation is good.

[Border]

The heroine in the story is in everyone of us. All of us are imprisoned in our own private prisons and our minds are chained.
The author brings out the feelings nicely and states the universal truth, that we all face.

[Marie]

I hadn't thought of it quite like that, but thanks' for your opinion.

[Border]

That is the beauty of writing. Unlike a movie, where you have to swallow the interpretation of the director, the written word can mean different things to different people from different cultures. That is why Shylok, in Merchant of Venice is a villian to some and to others he is a victim.

[Effervescent Dreams]

Marie,

I read it many times over, before i grasped the allegory. A gripping story narrated in a short and sweet manner..... and i could sense the hurt of loving something 'uncaring'. Very beautifully presented. It was a pleasure to read your story.......

Nimmi

[Marie]

Thank you.

[Taylor]

Returning the favor of a review, again with many thanks. "but their ringing tells me he’s coming" -- "ringing" to me isn't really descriptive of what the keys actually do; because of my profession, I spent a fair amount of time in jails and it seems to me that the guards' keys made more of a syncopated rattling sound. As always, you've delivered a good thing in a small package. You call it a "piece of nonsense." I disagree -- it's an enigmatic piece subject to some interesting interpretation -- never to be nailed down!

[Marie]

Thank you. You're right; keys don't ring. I can fix this.

[William Richards]

Once again Marie, excellent. You are very good at this craft.

I can only pick a few recommendations, please feel free to disagree. Perhaps 'The jangle of keys' rather than 'The jangle of the keys'?

Maybe 'Seeing your uncaring face daily is my only food' could be 'Seeing your face daily is my only food. Even if it's uncaring.' I realised she loves him still despite being self imprisoned and treated badly.

Thought provoking, this piece will stay with me, as all your work does. It's truly a privilege to read your work.

[Marie]

Thank you very much, William; for reading and for your suggestions.

[Divya]

It is an exotic and truly creatove work

[Marie]

Thank you.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

i don't see this as nonsense...i see it as how we often imprison ourselves by locking away our heart...and we stay imprisoned for so long, we forget why we did it in the first place...and we don't remember anymore who we were when we knew how to love.

[Marie]

You know, I kind of based this on a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

[wordman]

well marie ,this is a creative write

[Marie]

Thanks Wordman.

[wordman]

hope you got out, your welcome

[Woody]

wonderful nonsense, Marie. love it. been away for some time and missed your writes.

[Marie]

Thanks, Woody.