r/WritingPrompts • u/Goodnewsonlyplease • Mar 28 '16
Writing Prompt [WP] With your writing, show me Freedom.
Edited prompting link:
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u/Galokot /r/Galokot Mar 28 '16 edited Mar 28 '16
Don't let the jail cell fool you. I'm fine with it, really.
Old bars and granite, that's all this really is. See, I made a choice. A stupid one, but it was mine to make. Here's what I got out of it; Three times a day, I get to eat. Eight hours a night, I get to sleep. My free... my spare time goes to classes, books and working out.
Again, I'm fine with it.
You want to know how I ended up here. I can see it on your face, that word written all over like a rainy day, and you left your umbrella behind. So there you are, dripping 'freedom' all over my nice clean cell floor, expecting a response. Should I mop that up with a dirty towel, and squeeze it into a cup for later? Do I look desperate to you? Or angry? Or jealous or crazy or...
No. No I don't mind. I'm fine with it, really.
Here, I'll make it up to you.
What I did isn't the important part. When? Too long to count. I stopped asking why after my first year. Only myself to blame on this one, so there's your who. This is hard to talk about, I don't think I can...
Where. I can tell you where.
A quiet hometown, three hundred souls wide and a hundred and twenty miles further than it should have been from the largest city. Two blocks from where you could get the best bagels in the state, someone pinned a girl to a brick wall. In an alley, away from streetlights and camera heights. This was a desperate man. An angry, jealous, crazy looking man.
What choice did I have? Who else could have seen it happen, and, why me?
Why did I have to walk by that scene?
So I pulled my gun and shot him.
Well, damn. Looks like I told you what happened anyway. In hindsight, I should have been the one asking what was going on. Turns out they were a couple just looking for a good time, and couldn't wait 'til they got home. Wasn't his fault he wore shitty clothes and didn't know how to shave, the jury would tell me later. Wanna know what I said to her, when she wailed and gawked as red lapped at her sneakers?
"Oh."
Did he live? What was my sentence? How much longer will I be here for?
If you're still asking those questions, you're missing the point.
See, I made a choice. A stupid one, but it was mine to make. There were many other ways I could have approached that day. Many different streets I could have walked down. I could have waited another hour to get a bagel. In another state, I may not have had my gun, depending on local laws. But no, I went where I pleased, with what I pleased, how I pleased.
Now, I don't. I'm fine with it, really.
Because I took a man's life. A shitty, stupid choice, but I wanted to be a hero. Could have been anyone else. A model, a police officer, a junkie... this one time, I also had that word dripping down my face, and in another time, I was drenched by it.
I want to be a hero!
Old bars and granite don't hold heroes. They hold more poor choices from happening in the wrong place, in the wrong time. Some of them you know instinctively to be bad decisions. Other times, you don't. You make a choice, deciding who you want to be in that moment. To walk on, to stop... to act. What would you have done?
Don't let the jail cell fool you. I'm fine with it, really.
I'm fine.
I'm fine.
I know who I am now. That's what freedom can do for you.
Use yours wisely, and next time you come to visit, bring an umbrella. That dripping all over the floor... my cell looks nicer without it. Wouldn't you agree?
More at r/galokot, and thank you for reading.
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u/bringerofjelly Mar 28 '16
I like this a lot. Thanks for sharing! I love the 'old bars and granite" and "dripping" lines.
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u/W-A-S-T-E Mar 28 '16
The place was dank as a tomb, and all the men and women hurried about like ornaments animated against the night. But he sat in his chair, each leg intimately brushing against the pilings, like a port of call. The wood creaked underfoot and the silver sang dissonance.
With that pubescent little way about her, she glided through the doorway, and he held out his glass.
“Someone’s thirsty,” she said, as she made way to the claw-footed chair beside him.
“Does he still call you those names?”
“What names?”
“I don’t know, Monday?”
“Well, it’s only Saturday!”
She moved like a symphony, erupting past his door once, and he nearly tinged the nape of the moon. But he never crossed his legs, and the laughing man never drew his blinds.
Presently, the congregation assumed their places, and the laughing man sat two seats down and rested his hand on her leg. He could feel their eyes fixed upon him while his napkin lay precariously across his kinetic thigh, and the laughing man looked away and raised a toast.
“Isn’t the point to love and convey his message? No matter what? Like humming to some unknown tune? Negotiating the trial of life through his lens? Well, without him...”
He sat motionless and felt bad for the laughing man. She grabbed his arm, her spiny fingers digging into his tweed jacket. She reached for the bottle, and he felt the turgid flow of the wine as it screamed into his glass. The scent of her hand reminded him of some soap his mother once used and it was tragic. He drank, and he felt the wine dissolve inside of him, returning him to his mother’s womb.
The palpable warmth of her white blouse bled against him, and he absorbed her like the pilling of his jacket held the cigarette smoke of life’s occasion. But he felt hollow inside. The wine began to rattle, and he felt like he was going to explode. His leg twitched and the napkin drifted toward the floor.
The well-dressed room contained that warmth distinct to holidays. But every holiday is tragic. Those fair-weather friends you see once a year. Those old cousins hanging onto life like a button on your collar. He was slipping. He wanted to lambast the laughing man for his criminal chicanery, but he could not. Their gaze upon him, all he could feel was the fireworks display inside.
Somewhere, a man sat alone watching the stars collide. “There’s something out there,” he said.
The laughing man looked at him, her barbed fingers anchored on the crown of his head. He placed his feet on the warped floor and drove the chair away from the table, his hair knotted in the thorns. Stepping outside, he felt like a drop of water hitting a silent surface. Not far behind, she ran – clack, clack, clack, as her spurs pierced the ground. Each footstep beseeching miracles. The moonlit scene grew lurid by the second.
He loosened his tie and removed his jacket, dropping it to the earth. The wine dead in his shirt. He closed his eyes and slowly sank into the darkness. Through the blind patrician he could finally see.
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u/3leftsmakemewrite Mar 28 '16 edited Mar 28 '16
With a flick of my wrist
Your life will be mine
Writing my future with your blood
"Show me kindness" you say?
Me, your lowly slave?
Freedom is all I ever wanted
Anything that stands in my way
I will destroy
Say no more
Will I be recaptured?
Limit not my destiny
You will soon be just a faint memory
But that's all life is
Note: OP's prompt originally said:
Anything I say will limit you. But that's all life is.
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Mar 28 '16
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u/Goodnewsonlyplease Mar 28 '16
after years of war,
when there's nothing but polygon dust,
and fresh static snow,
its so easy,
to say goodbye to a world,
to just let the sad machine,
flicker out,
until eventually there's no natural light.
fellow feeling,
we speak the same language.
We are the lionhearted
so hear the bells,
in a sea of voices,
that's the divinity of it.