Matthew Newton

Something Maple May Be: (part seventeen) by Matthew L Newton

“Hello?” Nothing. A slight wrapping, maybe tapping…..

“Hello?” Again, and this time the tapping has stopped.

“Anybody, at all…at least” Yet the throat tires.

There had been the same nothing, each day, the same empty silence that without perhaps his efforts to recruit turn in vane; everyday since his incarceration to the dark. Since his entrapment in the box, that box that has coffined him. That box, that sudden purchasing for the wail of his throat and the pain of his loneliness. This box he is enclosed…..

“This stupid fucking box!!!!” Screams the young black haired boy, slamming his fist at the dark as droplets of invisable blood run along the curves of his forehead.

“Anybody!!!” And to the silence again he gives himself.

There were moments, once, before he began to travel that this behavior took up much of the day. Now though, now that the day is spent on looking, a mention of histeria only as often as the food that falls from it’s slits. This box that has to feed him. Feed him to keep him alive. Feed him for the promise of payment. A person for a person they had said. A person for a person.

“Hello…..” and he is drifting, out, on to the lake. On to the field of two choices and the lights by the side of a sea. On.

With the black he dives to meet them at the palace kept for the meek. With every simple whisper he is humbled, growing weak. Beyond a severed gesture do a cavernous hunger growl; The paint that dries beyond repair, the jackle, speckled owl. Consume, commit, compared to you and on the wish we make it. Walk beside this lake and take my hand if we’re to fake it.

Matthew Newton
DOC #81868

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