THE PRISONER
The prisoner had waited for more than three hours. He had no sense of time, having been deprived
of his watch. The lawyer had been
cryptic about his prospects, but he knew.
He knew as all lawyers know.
The muse had taken the prisoner and he began to scratch on
the wall with a shard of flint. He
etched his name: ‘Steven’. He couldn’t
add his surname, having never learnt it.
He knew it was snowing outside and the ground frozen. Despite the chill, the prisoner felt a
strange warmth, as if here in this cell he was finally cosseted from reality
and the end would be soon.
He had decided. No
future. He seized the shard like a dice
of life and used it.
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