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Pound
The steel bars rattled as the man with the unforgiving stare yanked the cage door open.
“Supper,” he barked as he dropped a bowl at my feet before slamming the door closed once again. As always, the food was bland, yet I wolfed it down as though I hadn’t eaten in days.
“How you bear to eat that, I’ll never know,” growled my cell mate. The years he’d spent here had drained any hope he’d ever had of freedom.
“I need my strength to impress the visitors,” I explained optimistically.
“Because they’re your ticket out of here, right?” I’ve heard it all before. But there is no ticket out. We all end up the same. They take us to the back room and it’s over.”
I grinned and shook my head. Just then, the man returned to yank the doors open once more, this time with a stranger at his side. He beckoned to me and said, “It’s your lucky day. Someone wants to take you home.” I looked at the newcomer, seeming as if I’d known her my whole life, and wagged.
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Favorite Quote:
"Life is like a box of crayons. Most people are the 8-color boxes, but what you're really looking for are the 64-color boxes with the sharpeners on the back. I fancy myself to be a 64-color box, though I've got a few missing. It's ok though, because I've got some more vibrant colors like periwinkle at my disposal. I have a bit of a problem though in that I can only meet the 8-color boxes. Does anyone else have that problem? I mean there are so many different colors of life, of feeling, of articulation.. so when I meet someone who's an 8-color type.. I'm like, hey girl, magenta! and she's like, oh, you mean purple! and she goes off on her purple thing, and I'm like, no - I want magenta!"