"The Authoritarian, the Warden, and the 26 Prisoners"
By: Abdulkarim Alghabban

Ideations of marvel seeped into his ears, his cheeks were colored pink in joy; literary genres dwelled in his face. Therein, they infested it; not eating it, but dinning upon its now-darkened complexion in mirth. Like melodies, they were never to be captured, only sought after in the deepest pits of the mind; like fire being poked at a hearth in the dead, cold winter, they danced to and fro … cerebration of pink hue allured the most astute scholars of deceit to immutable truths. If only he knew…

Pardon me, I'm no silver-tongued narrator, for my creator is quite frustrated, you see:

Uncertain in his certainties, as he had never desired, he faded to gray amongst the unruly as though a master chameleon of the beyond. Yet, his shaking knees, out of pure joy, sold his grayness to merchants of glistening gold; his teeth danced too hesitant to swallow an ounce of pride. Forthwith, he salivated forbidden secrets, which should never be leaked, for its divine doctrine would be deformed into a disease amongst the unruly– or worse, a whosis. As if a cur, His thoughts were inundating public feet as they dripped from his tongue for everyone to examine and taste. As the unruly bystanders approached such delicacies of the mouth, he screamed within: "Oh! I must justify, justify! Nobody should know of my genius ideations yet!" he lamented such delicacies of his for seducing the nescient… though none ever cared. His tongue spoke in Self-Afflicted Misfortune, a language most heard and most ignored by the unruly, akin to a child's odoriferous mouth shouting at its mother; it will tell you much but not all and thus not much about all; for the further you wish it to explain more, the more its stench fills up the room, only for you to race, covering your own, as not to be infected. All of that is much to the chagrin of the unruly yet such disability afforded them many slumbers; such my creator wagered as he winded his chest, thundering back home to transcribe whatever was left of the marvels that purified the pavements upon which he stood. With his mental faculties resting deeply in his pockets, all thanks to his humility, his head-crooked pen puked twisted words as if each letter were of misshapen spines whenever he wrote a word or two. With tyranny of indifference, the unruly, shrugged him off, and so did his pen.

"Your haunting drives my creativity unlocked" I heard him speak to his Editor "This haunting of yours will be a reverie once I lock myself within my brain," yet his brain stood and slept poor within infinite wealth in this drought of ideas, resembling a doctor's house, copious in instruments of filth and disease. Soon enough, that head-crooked pen realized it had belonged to its master for too long, but its master wrung his fingers around, as if a serpent of blind justice. "No such thing as a dead end" he echoed whilst scratching his forehead with the pen "I'll write, compose, and author until this pen scrolls my ideas in the right order! A marvelous novel is on the way."

From atop the white terrain, upon which his arms were firmly cast, whispers of his ill-repute, as well as joyous laughter rendered him wide-eyed. His face drooped like candles upon their flaming death. Creatures of ink who knew nothing but order& solitude kept dancing out of joy for being released of their cylindrical prison, mesmerizing his eyeballs, seducing them left and right. The pen felt overwhelmed by such innocence, that it up-breathed more of its ink to set the rest 19 Prisoners free. In lieu of plot exposition that were supposed to be inscribed upon the lined terrain, exposition of love took place and lit up the lined landscapes, up and down, left and right. Merry Letters aligned themselves boustrophedonically. Prisoners no more. They rejoiced as they wore their identity shrouds in pride; X and Z united as the uncommon pair; U clung upon its former lover's back, Y; H was too timid, a poor one, sometimes loved, and at times loathed, until O came to console it; G and J reconciled their similar jealousies into unified fronts; C and K found much differences in their parallelism, which concluded their animosity. The Escapees were filled with much compassion, seeing that they cling to one another undeterred by internal inconsistencies of extremities. To a Harvester, however, Seeds being free-willed were most vexing, as none to obey his reaping hands. Neither cave of aggrieved breath nor hoodwinked eyes could set asunder the Newly-United. "Oh my fingers! Why oh, I cannot write when all these harlots run a muck!" he squalled as his sanity shook my hands goodbye, to rest with another family of abstracts "When my pen feels my graceful fingers caressing its dorsum, it shudders ever so straight in disgust! A Warden of Prisoners once, now their Trustee; augh, disgusting pen!"

So, please, pardon me for not being an eloquent narrator, as my creator, you see, was defeated by the merest of abstracts and a scintilla of tea…



Not long after, he resiled into his chair, and, in return, his pen forswore his hands. It was so frustrating to see such a man; so frustrating to be created out of misery to bring happiness! Yet, I belong to him as much as a production line is owned by its factory, and much like it, a production line can neither lament nor praise its factory. Against such logical conclusion, out of naÏve camaraderie, I resolved to be of help however dooming. I was not about to tell him how to do his job; so, I told him how not to do his job, since he is inherently terrible at both when he does the former– well, there I was, in this vapid head, compressed ever more with this weird Throne next to me. Its occupant, a Thought of Feeble Foreshadowing laughed aloud while swinging her legs, causing twinges in my creator's skull; His eyes grew protruded, his heart absorbed hatred more than a mother whose son's odoriferous mouth kept shouting at her, and his mind, despite misoneism, for a second, almost killed me in its red-colored ''talent''. With his unwilling Warden as a truncheon, he sought to keep Peace and Order amongst the loose harlots who danced nakedly. Merriness was perceived as Rioting before his Order; Fear visited Freedom and knocked on its doors; Freedom cowered to Fear against the Overreaching Absolute of Compassion! In multiple and separate lines, he stripped such riotous beings of all their values and inherent virtues, of all their winsome lives, of all their identities, and rights. They withstood and resisted the first few strikes, they refused to listen to their soi-disant Author. He battered them again from left to right, that they might cohere themselves into the desired state. "You must bear this fire-born life now! If only you had lined yourselves as magnetic words and sentences, as my loyalists, per my demands, none of this would have had to happen," my creator said as he hit each letter in an act of vengeance for disobeying creative yet moral, eminent orders "my deadline is here soon! The Editor will come any moment now! You're so magnetic, attracting nothing but Torment." The dalliance of these lively Letters ceased to be. Imbued with ink, fragments began to fall off. Weakened by the battering, they rested on one another's shoulders; their tangled limbs inched, in unison, next to one another; His cognition rose anew! A creative sentence took shape! "We are conceived by the damned to serve their perverted eyes and deadlines."

Winds howled in tears for the Pen and the Escapees…

''If only I had a trumpet to sound to inculcate fear and righteous order into these harlots! Even if I had such, the dead and the unruly alike would commove in respect yet these harlots would still dance!'' Such was his Thought that sat on the Throne to my left in his pulpous Chamber of Creativity.

Their Harvester's fingers, after feeling the Warden's love and Master's disdain, took leave, creating a defense force however frail. My creator was out of fingers, but with much grief and many more teeth!

The corners of the white landscapes folded themselves in fear to shelter the Escapees from this Colossal Wolf; and as a benevolent business tycoon would act, he tore such beauty as he saw fit with his mouth. 26 Escapees lay under his nose without a home. The Warden, despite years of faithful service, refused to take any more orders, speaking truth to Power. Ironically– perhaps, not at all–such Power, as endowed by fangs, eviscerated the Warden of his rank and steel-flesh alike, taking out its transparent spine that gave it a will and life! A hallowed carcass on the outside with teeth marks remained, only to morph into a Blackjack. With his fangs, he slowly positioned the Blackjack in the middle of his mouth as a canon that fired shots of despair. My eyes, though metaphysical, as you can probably guess, were shut like an oracle's who knew corruption was the master of purity yet had to always do right by the duty. The victims screeched for tenderness upon each hit their bodies endured. Whenever an extremity of theirs resembled a mouth, he stomped it, as not to hear pleas that begged Him to respect them and their dead friend's carcass; for only the greater good which he sought through 'disciplining' them, was the solution to his despair. Beautiful extremities were broken further and bent atop one another. Wondrous landscapes, lined or not, with folded ears, shook his desk out of comradery to the Abused. As though a siren of war, he sounded growls of ire until the walking throngs, whom he avoided so much, gathered by the windows with the winds that howl. Disobedient, enchanting letters were taken to the hearth to be burned alive. Flames turned blue by the mission they were ordered to lead; Disgust carved itself upon the Flames like a dead mother who laments her son in his dreams for his odoriferous mouth that kept shouting at her. The Author kept poking the Flames' sides, as if a stern father who jovially orders his children to pulverize their friends, that they might study better… be that as it may, the Flames roared back at Him until drooping candles felt envious of His fair wax skin. A rotten smell summoned the Sun to this scenery of misery.

The Sun, who used to look forward to his writing every quarter, intrigued by such smell, peered closer at the windows, leaving behind lands in shadows. It gazed in horror at these ghastly sights, only to subdue its radiant light with the shadows it had created moments ago. Mother Nature, then, overdosed on Grimness as The Sun lamented each day she shone herself on my creator until its death. Clocks ticked day and night yet darkness covered all. This was the longest winter…

A change of seasons into the stale, necessitates a change of imagery. Perhaps, I should not have alluded to that in here but, forgive me, as you know, I'm no silver-tongued narrator.




His mouth was worn-out from all the flogging it did and, in naive hope, he thought the Escapees would become Prisoners once more. With whatever forearm power he had left, he turned the pages in search for their Obedience, but mutual hatred was the only thing found. Wounded, the letters shrieked. Outlasting anger, they fled from one folded ear to another across the white pages. The hair on his forearms were land mines; whenever such hair touched the Escapees, the heat they felt within almost exploded them–and a Colossal Wolf has plenty of hair! Their legs resembled a harlequinade troupe, save their dancing was not out of joy nor out of will, it was out of jitters. Yet, Despair could never dis-pair the Escapees. As the land mines almost tore the soldiers' limbs apart, a field telephone rang, bringing with it much undesired interruptions to the Turncoats' execution.

What of his Editor and this call, then? His Editor found much more entertaining creativity in a cup of tea; for a teabag, whilst spreading its beautiful aroma as it drowns before its death, even in utmost desperation, drops its remaining lifeline more featly than his soi-disant Author could ever write in a century of comfort.

In complete revival of energy yet irritation, thanks to the Editor's call of tea-fascination, His mouth took control to start the flogging once more. During such delicate process, however, the Blackjack scratched his Palate, causing a crevice of blood; he felt so much relief from the bleeding. Supposedly, some creative ideas were born from such comfort. He remembered that beneath dirt, excavators dig deep to find treasures and gold; so, he did just that; for a mind under the virtue of insemination by irritation cannot differentiate between metaphors and literality, nor between directions of 'up' and 'down', nor between expressions and professions. Against all common sense pertaining to directions and comprehensions like a man who answers philosophical dilemmas by cutting the philosopher's tongue, he dug upwards, drilled upwards with the pointy tip of his Blackjack; pain and relief conjoined his cognition, fancying themselves a pair of twins; he cut further into the Center of Creativity. Full assuagement flooded his senses; His blood swam like swans over the white-paged landscapes; radicles wrenched themselves to be in the very picture of a pugilist on his last round, except that the Escapees mounted atop one another and stomped them into the void as though a stampede of inferno. Much like a Vatic, his limbs grew heavy all the more with each drop of blood-stained revelation and stomping. Try as he might in his last breaths, he found no more creative ideas; but only white sheets as accompanied by Druids of Ink Robes, gesturing the white terrain to fold its ears upon itself, to bury Him forever more. Only a single, posthumous idea leaked; it crawled out of velvet, soft grounds of flesh, mirroring an excavator who saw hope in Despondency's den; an old and obsolete theorem, I. Pardon my nerve (though my master's are no more), but, as you know, being the only remnant of his Center Of Creativity; and being free akin to Blood on Chains that majestically danced on their twists until it reached the shores of sovereignty, I'll change the title of this tale to a more merited one:

"The Author-itarian, the Trustee, and the 27 Escapees"

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