201
Comacracy: Letter #4
To my dear cell-neighbor Robert,
I hope you don’t mind me calling you my neighbor, my cell-neighbor at that. I know that’s not what they call them; it doesn’t matter much to me though. A cell’s a cell, and we’re prisoners.
I’ve been thinking a lot about a funny story before they caught me. I know you haven’t had the chance to introduce yourself just yet, but I’m sure they’ll be sending a newspaper soon enough (try to listen for Miss Falcon’s footsteps. She’s that older lady who stomps around in those old-timey tap shoes and is a bit of a better listener than the other attendants. She once passed me the crossword and ads from under the door last month.)
A couple months before I stumbled into Idaho, I was staying in Montana for a few weeks; sightseeing, sleeping, that sort of thing. I came across one of those new churches they’ve been building for the past year or two; you know, those brick towers with the balconies (I’m not sure how long you’ve been stuck in here; they’re a freaky sight. They just seem to go on and on, a splotch of deadened red against those grays and steels of the cities and walls) The congregation looks down from those balconies, watching their tiny preacher at the bottom shout their Gospel. I didn’t quite get what the deal with the new arrangement was; I thought their old pews worked just fine for the past few centuries. Turns out, it’s got to do with the priest being humble before the flock or something like that. I’ve never been a learned or religious man, myself, but my brother had a knack for that poetic and mythic way of thinking. I’d sometimes listen to his ramblings of prophets and mediums before our parents sent him off to bed. Funny things, those stories.
Without knowing why, I wanted to see what the fuss was about with these new churches, so I snuck into the construction site of one (I’ve never actually seen one that wasn’t under construction, come to think of it. They’ve had plenty of time to call it quits; guess they just build them taller and taller to accommodate the congregation). The pulpit (or I guess it’d just be a “pit” in this situation) and first dozen floors were already finished, so I snooped around without fear of getting caught for trespassing.
A few folks were sitting on the balconies above me; praying, reading, that sort of thing. It’s funny how they seemed completely oblivious to the danger and noise of construction above them. Peace of God, I guess. We could all use something like that right now, I bet; then they can just diagnose us and send us on our happy, miserable way.
Anyway, I had the nerve to peek at the Bible sitting on its lectern, smack-dab in the middle of the pulpit. It was already dusty from the construction above. I was curious to see where it was opened to, and, though I’ve never been a religious man, I think what I saw can only be explained by that sly hand of God.
It was in one of those beginning parts (Genesis, if I were to take a guess), and they were talking about towers. That’s right; they had it open to the story of Babel, the stinkers. Taller and taller, their own tower goes. Make room for the masses, make way, make way. To truly seal the deal of this fateful irony, I saw when leaving that they had torn down one of the outcroppings of the neighboring apartment towers to make room for the church.
“Make clear the way,” my brother’s prophetic stories would say. “Make clear the way for the coming of God.” Stupid, stinking irony.
You know, my brother’s name was Robert too, funny enough.
Sorry about that. Just wanted to write these thoughts down, I guess. Needed to ramble.
In other news, my Window’s gone out. It went out a few days after my third letter. I tried to tell Dr. Burke about it, but I doubt he actually listens to any of our requests. Get the numbers in, get the patients normal again, and send them on their way, I guess. I don’t blame him, really. I’ve had to entertain myself by staring at my dark doppelganger in the Window and fidgeting with the pens and old newspapers I’ve gotten my hands on for now. I never quite realized how awful boredom was. I always had the chance to just stand up and leave when I got tired of being in a situation before being locked in here. Since then, I would just look out the Window and hope they let something interesting happen, or at least let me see it. It seems my aimlessness has caught up with me at last.
Anyway, thanks for enduring my ramblings,
Your tired cell-neighbor, Travers Freeman
Thanks for reading! This was a short little bit of a world-building project I've been thinking about for the past few months, and just wanted share a little bit of it with y'all. Hope you enjoyed! Feedback and criticism is always appreciated! :)
To my dear cell-neighbor Robert,
I hope you don’t mind me calling you my neighbor, my cell-neighbor at that. I know that’s not what they call them; it doesn’t matter much to me though. A cell’s a cell, and we’re prisoners.
I’ve been thinking a lot about a funny story before they caught me. I know you haven’t had the chance to introduce yourself just yet, but I’m sure they’ll be sending a newspaper soon enough (try to listen for Miss Falcon’s footsteps. She’s that older lady who stomps around in those old-timey tap shoes and is a bit of a better listener than the other attendants. She once passed me the crossword and ads from under the door last month.)
A couple months before I stumbled into Idaho, I was staying in Montana for a few weeks; sightseeing, sleeping, that sort of thing. I came across one of those new churches they’ve been building for the past year or two; you know, those brick towers with the balconies (I’m not sure how long you’ve been stuck in here; they’re a freaky sight. They just seem to go on and on, a splotch of deadened red against those grays and steels of the cities and walls) The congregation looks down from those balconies, watching their tiny preacher at the bottom shout their Gospel. I didn’t quite get what the deal with the new arrangement was; I thought their old pews worked just fine for the past few centuries. Turns out, it’s got to do with the priest being humble before the flock or something like that. I’ve never been a learned or religious man, myself, but my brother had a knack for that poetic and mythic way of thinking. I’d sometimes listen to his ramblings of prophets and mediums before our parents sent him off to bed. Funny things, those stories.
Without knowing why, I wanted to see what the fuss was about with these new churches, so I snuck into the construction site of one (I’ve never actually seen one that wasn’t under construction, come to think of it. They’ve had plenty of time to call it quits; guess they just build them taller and taller to accommodate the congregation). The pulpit (or I guess it’d just be a “pit” in this situation) and first dozen floors were already finished, so I snooped around without fear of getting caught for trespassing.
A few folks were sitting on the balconies above me; praying, reading, that sort of thing. It’s funny how they seemed completely oblivious to the danger and noise of construction above them. Peace of God, I guess. We could all use something like that right now, I bet; then they can just diagnose us and send us on our happy, miserable way.
Anyway, I had the nerve to peek at the Bible sitting on its lectern, smack-dab in the middle of the pulpit. It was already dusty from the construction above. I was curious to see where it was opened to, and, though I’ve never been a religious man, I think what I saw can only be explained by that sly hand of God.
It was in one of those beginning parts (Genesis, if I were to take a guess), and they were talking about towers. That’s right; they had it open to the story of Babel, the stinkers. Taller and taller, their own tower goes. Make room for the masses, make way, make way. To truly seal the deal of this fateful irony, I saw when leaving that they had torn down one of the outcroppings of the neighboring apartment towers to make room for the church.
“Make clear the way,” my brother’s prophetic stories would say. “Make clear the way for the coming of God.” Stupid, stinking irony.
You know, my brother’s name was Robert too, funny enough.
Sorry about that. Just wanted to write these thoughts down, I guess. Needed to ramble.
In other news, my Window’s gone out. It went out a few days after my third letter. I tried to tell Dr. Burke about it, but I doubt he actually listens to any of our requests. Get the numbers in, get the patients normal again, and send them on their way, I guess. I don’t blame him, really. I’ve had to entertain myself by staring at my dark doppelganger in the Window and fidgeting with the pens and old newspapers I’ve gotten my hands on for now. I never quite realized how awful boredom was. I always had the chance to just stand up and leave when I got tired of being in a situation before being locked in here. Since then, I would just look out the Window and hope they let something interesting happen, or at least let me see it. It seems my aimlessness has caught up with me at last.
Anyway, thanks for enduring my ramblings,
Your tired cell-neighbor, Travers Freeman
Thanks for reading! This was a short little bit of a world-building project I've been thinking about for the past few months, and just wanted share a little bit of it with y'all. Hope you enjoyed! Feedback and criticism is always appreciated! :)
| Credit | Story and artwork by EccentricEremite (me) |
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