fiction
edward w pritchard
After a dozen years of informal house arrest deteriorating health has intruded on my silent completion of my sentence. I have forgotten how I came to placed in this situation and I can find no legal documents with the why's and how's of the circumstances causing my involvement as an incarcerate.
Things happen gradually. First there are so many places and directions one can no longer go. Entire U.S. States or regions of the Country. West, or North, originally but local nearby places become most permanently taboo. Then parts of the city, townships, nine or ten streets with no composite name.
Then poverty, although how can one be in Poverty with two hundred fifty dollars in the wallet and a thousand in a jar in the basement?
Social stigma is subconsciously gleamed by strangers an invisible aura sent out by the eyes of the prisoner. One is here to fore permanently the Other.
Alienation keeps one then on in the State of house arrest. Not just in one House, for change of domicile occurs more frequently than before.
Each morning it's dark when one comes to consciousness of the surroundings. It's dark as well when one finds them self asleep struggling to stay ahead of their dreams. In between one must exercise severely to avoid sudden death.
Holidays interrupt the routine. A solitary march to a well laid out feast. Sometimes with forgotten fascination for a broken cross.
Then it's back to house arrest. Silence and stillness consciously dreaming awake in the majesty of humanness.
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