Another good week on the Flash! Friday front. We were given a photo of this rogue.
The photo is from 1847; his name is Louis Dodier, and he is in prison. I guess I could look him up. But it's late.
So I thought about the idea of prisoners, and came up with two rough ideas. Then I read that the setting had to be a theater. "I can work that in," I said.
So first is "The Fourth Wall."
Samantha overcooked the eggs. Again. She also burned the toast. But she knew Jonathan wouldn't be angry. He probably wouldn't say a word. He could no longer be bothered to recite his lines. She, too, had grown weary of intoning the same stilted, dated dialogue, night after night.
For years, Samantha and Jonathan followed the script.
Get married. Buy a house in Middle Generica. Have a child. Have another. Daycare. Play dates. Chuck-E-Cheese. Skinned knees. Soccer. Ballet. Acne. First heartbreak. Driving lessons. Acceptance letters. Graduation. Freshman orientation. Student loans. A $150,000 scrap of paper, times two.
After the children began inking their own stories, the leads' lives lost their direction. They played each night to an empty house. A change in scenery, downsizing, could not disguise the inescapable fact that their production, despite a great run, would soon be closing.
Prisoners in their own lives, Samantha and Jonathan continued to go through the motions, trying to flesh out their once-robust, now two-dimensional, roles. But after so many stagings, all of the drama – the ad-libbing – had been wrung from their performances. The only question left in Samantha's mind was when the curtain would fall.
And which of them would be the first to exeunt.
And then, around 11:20, I finished the allegorical "Prisoners."
Darkness fears light. For light is inquisitive. Insistent. Indefatigable.
I often wonder what I could have done to merit incarceration, though, in reality, I recognize my ruminations are merely an exercise in philosophical esoterica.
Cogito ergo inimīcus.
I think, therefore I am the enemy.
I told the truth.
The Bard opined, "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players."
Unfortunately, fools erroneously believe the boards upon which they tread were harvested from the Tree Of Knowledge, and their lines were scripted from pens divine.
Theater Of The Absurd, at its finest.
Lamentably, the truth is welcomed only begrudgingly, and embraced only at arm's length. Indeed, it is regarded with suspicion, a slippery, slithering inconvenience. We all know how mankind views snakes. As an inherent evil, one which should be vilified, feared, and driven from Éire.
So, here I sit, in solitary confinement, waiting while the powers-that-be search for a jury of my peers.
I am reason.
Thus, I rot, locked away by a human stain which fears the light of truth. Still, I cannot remain idle. I must find a way to escape.
For if I were to stay here, how long would it be before I share my cell with hope?