writings...

Philip stood at the prison gate, head low, back against the icy metal bars. He shifted, but in every position, the bars dug into his back as if they were determined to keep him glued to the gate. The warden marched toward him. Philip did not look up.“Stand up straight! You think you’re one o’ them?"
The warden moved on to holler at the next guard before his voice had even finished echoing against the prison walls.

“Yes,” Philip mumbled under his breath. “That’s exactly how I feel.”

He lifted his head and curled himself away from the gate as if his body had molded there and needed to be peeled off. He stared dutifully ahead. His shoulders tensed as his gaze fell on a small bundle lying on the stone floor, a child’s face peeking out to look at him. He looked away before the big blue eyes caught him in their mournful stare. He knew if they did he would be immediately entranced into running to the child, taking him up in his arms, and fleeing this bleak, miserable place.

But he knew it would be hopeless. He would never try it for the same reason no one else had ever tried it. Where would they go? The streets? At least they had the tiniest morsels of food here.

London was quaking beneath their feet, threatening to fall apart at any moment. The cries in the streets, the filth, the poverty, the starvation—they were all dying and no one knew. The poor weighed down the balance scale. The lower they fell the higher the rich rose to prosperity. There was no middle class anymore. There were the rich, who gorged themselves on food and ignorance, and the devastatingly poor.

Philip was poor. Only a few shillings in his pocket separated him from the people he guarded now. Without the coins he would be the one guarded, an inmate, a debtor.

He shivered. In his mind, he was already a prisoner. He was trapped in this cave of black and white and grey, surrounded by filth and lifeless bodies. A few shillings. That was all.

He did not have a family to drag with him to this place like others did. Even now he watched a family, huddled together, trying to stay warm.

“Mama,” a tiny girl said. “I’m hungry. When do we get to eat?"

“Not till mornin’, dear,” the woman said, petting the child’s hair.

“Let me work!” the boy beside her said, coughing between words.

“You’re too ill to work, son,” the father said.

“Then how’ll we ever get out? If we can’t work?” The boy stood, resisting his mother’s tug at his sleeve.

“Sit down, Johnny. You can’t work.”

The boy lowered himself down after half-heartedly throwing his hat to the ground.

Philip’s jaw clenched, his head burning. This was merciless. It was inhuman. These families were forced into prison because they could not pay their debts. But in prison, they not only had no way to pay those debts, they had to pay for their imprisonment. If they earned or were given money, most, if not all of it, went towards prison food. Where was justice in that?

People crammed into every corner, hoping someone would pay their debts. Philip shook his head, settling back against the bars once more. No one would ever come.

An old man rasped and hacked in a corner. A younger man offered a cup of water to him. He drank it gratefully. But the moment he swallowed the last drop his coughing persisted. Philip watched, helpless. He could not leave his post. The man kept coughing and coughing, until Philip’s own throat was sore, and his heart ached with every retch. He bent over, grabbed his own glass of water, and pushed himself from the metal bars.

“Philip! Stay put!”

The warden’s croaky voice sent chills down Philip’s spine. Or was that from the bars?

“Sir, he needs help . . .”

“He’s just an old man. He won’t last long.”

“You can’t just leave him!”

“Stay put, Philip! Or I’ll see that you join ‘em.”

Philip stiffened, backing up to the gate, his jaw clenched. The warden glared like a hawk, his fingers stiffening into claws. He eyed Philip with pale, nocturnal eyes then skulked into the darkness.

Philip’s back tensed as he resumed scanning the room. The sweep only formed tears that washed away his vision. He had been there too long. He was losing it. He sank to his knees, shaking, ignored by the guards to his left and right.“When will it end?” he wondered. “Will it ever end?”

“The poor will always be among you, my friend.”

Philip looked up, but could not see the speaker, whose voice seemed to pour into his soul like cool water. A hand rested on his shoulder. He started, jumping from the bars and stifling a cry. A man stood behind the bars, reaching through the gate. His eyes and cheeks glistened with tears, but, as Philip drew nearer, he thought he saw a faint smile.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I need to speak to your warden.”

Philip nodded slowly, forcing his eyes to look away. He felt a sudden darkness when he turned his back. He spotted the warden and ushered him over. The warden’s face distorted like a wrinkled tomato as he lumbered over, grumbling in protest, but he grew silent when he saw the man on the other side of the bars. His keys rattled as he unlocked the gate, inching it open. The man nodded gratefully as he stepped in. His eyes fell on the children in the corner and he sighed deeply, his tears multiplying.

“What do you want?” the warden demanded.

The visitor caressed a small pouch in his hand, and he passed it to the warden.

“I have come to free them,” he said. The warden’s eyes widened. Philip’s staggered, a weight of gratefulness and confusion rushing at his chest. Who was he? A king? He must be! And yet he was clothed in peasant rags.

“What did you say?” the warden asked, squinting one eye and scanning the man with the other.

“I’ve reconciled what they owe. Free them.”

The warden stared, stunned. He opened the pouch. It was filled to the rim with coins. He gulped, closed it, and glared at the man.

“Fine,” he said. “Fine.” He spat on the ground and stomped away with the money.

The visitor turned to Philip, smiling gently. Philip could hardly breathe.

“Philip,” he said. “You are free, too. You will always be provided for.” He placed a firm hand on Philip’s shoulder. “I will be waiting outside.”

He slipped out before Philip could find his voice. His heart pounded. He was frozen in shock. In an instant he was brought from frustration to confusion to pure exhilaration. He was free! Grabbing a candle from the wall, he ran to meet the people and tell them the good news.

“You are free!” he cried, his voice erupting in the silence. “Someone paid your debts! You are free! Come! The gate is open! You’re…”

No one was listening. The echoes of his own voice came back to him, unheard. He ran up to the sick man and shined the light on his face. The man looked up, wincing.

“You are free!” Philip repeated. “Come!”

“You’re crazy!” the man spat. The effort had him coughing again, and he coughed so hard he could not hear what Philip said. Philip ran to the next person, the younger man.

“The gate is open! Please! Come!”

“What?” the man asked, looking up with tired eyes.

“A man has paid your debts!”

“Oh. Well I can’t go, see? I’m better off here.”

“What? Are you mad? Come! Be free!”

“I’m better here. I have shelter. I am safe. Leave me be!”

Philip’s head burned with confusion and frustration. Why wasn’t anyone listening? Then he glimpsed the family. The children had raised their heads and were looking at him. He ran over to where they sat, shining the light on their pale faces.

“Come,” he said. “A man has come to free you.”

“No!” the father said. “No, we can’t go.”

“But father!” the boy cried.

“Please sir,” Philip pleaded. “Let them come.”

“No!”

But the boy and girl were already running toward the gate, their parents calling after them. Philip watched as the children ran outside of the prison, where the moon was rising over the stone courtyard. The visitor, their savior, was there to embrace them when they ran into his arms. The parents watched, shocked, then stumbled after them. Philip beamed as he watched. He nearly raced alongside them just to see their smiles when they met the man that freed them, but Philip wanted more people to come. He ran to the next family and the next, spreading the news.

Some caught onto the excitement. They ran out the gate to thank the man who had saved them. Some stayed, grumbling that they had been disturbed. Others seemed to go deaf when he came near. Others could not move and he had to drag them to freedom. When he had told everyone, less than half had gone through the gate. Philip did not understand. He stumbled outside, dejected, discouraged, and exhausted.

It was dark. The streets of London were silent, all lights extinguished for the night. All lights but one. The man, the stranger, held a single torch, the small flame illuminating his face and body so that he glowed in the darkness. Philip’s own torch quivered falteringly as he ran to the man.

“They won’t come,” Philip breathed. The man stepped toward him, still smiling. He bent his torch over Philip’s, igniting it with a new, powerful flame. He glanced around at the small crowd. “Everyone must have a light. Go back to them with the light and they will see that the gate is open. Then they will come.”

The crowd scattered, gathering the sleeping torches that clung in metal beds to the courtyard walls and taking them to their leader to be awakened with his fire. Every boy and girl and parent was soon glowing like a star, and as they gathered at the prison gate, each individual glow became one, beautiful, blazing sun.

Philip stood tall in its heat, knowing his tears were not concealed. Their leader faced them, his own tears visible. He turned, beckoned them with his torch, and led them into the prison of men and women who had rejected freedom. Lifting his own torch, Philip followed in awe as the brilliant glow of fire invaded the darkness, consuming even the blackest corners. Warm light pulsed on every pale, wondering face whose eyes could now see the path to the open gate.