Tuesday, September 15, 2015

William Myrl; Letters to No One (21)

Dear No One,
I was working on a portrait when he brought the mop bucket over. Jark was eating Ramen noodles on my left, and Squatpostle was working on another drawing project on my right. The man rolled up the mop bucket and sat on the fourth stool. The three of us exchanged glances as he produced a bar of soap and began shaving it on the edge of the table so that the flakes fell in the mop bucket. Squatpostle was a bit offended because his drawing surface was shaking because of it. Jark and I were giggling and making motions of amazement.
Once the man had finished mincing his soap he began soaking his clothes in the resulting slosh. The booth officer called him for a palaver and kindly explained that such was just not done. While they debated the finer points of pod laundering, the man's celly appeared and dumped more clothes into the bucket. Eventually they were forced to pretend to comply with the officer's directives by bringing the bucket into the cell with them to do the actual scrubbing. Given that some people wash their clothes in the toilet, this isn't terribly strange. But I had never seen the like before.
Our pod is situated above the segregation units, so we can hear their shenanigans. For the past few days someone has been using the vents as a phone system. It isn't very effective. But it is less annoying than when they kick the doors.
So, I've sent home all my entries for the PEN prison writing contest. I can't help but feel confident, given my mastery of the alphabet. If only my being the best always translated into the judges recognizing that I am the best. Last year the poetry winners were all free verse. You know how I feel about free verse.
I will soon be forced to return to my larger calling. Mythopoeia beckons. The first half of the novel is always the balkiest, after that the machine can pretty much just run as it will. 

William Myrl (21)

PS: My player has not been replaced yet. Very sad face. 

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