IMPRISONED

IMPRISONED

Michael, what’s Suze’s writing prompt for this week?

“Something like “write about your imprisoned images.”

What the hell does that mean? What’s an “imprisoned image?

“It’s an image that’s imprisoned in your mind.”

Jesus Christ, I know what imprisoned means and I know what an image is, what does she mean by it? Did she, can YOU, explain?!

Impatience is my strong suit.

And, yet, he loves me.

“It’s like… something that is an image or a thought that haunts you, that you don’t like to think about. I think.”

He yawns, stretches his lanky legs fully out under the orange coffee table from his comfy perch on the cat-bedecked loveseat. We decorate with cats.

That’s it?

“I can’t remember; Lisa. It’s probably in her email.”

Do you think I keep track of emails? My head is swimming in grad student finals, Restorative Justice trainings, Multi-Party Conflict Resolution seminars, Domestic Violence in Mediation coursework and how to get “Ricky Recovery Center” off the streets. My family is getting “Holiday, World Gone Mad” nutty and the billion wreaths I’m wrangling at the garden center are affecting my brain — I’m high on balsam and cedar fumes most of the time! Could she be more esoteric? Could you?

Was that a sigh? Did he just sigh? And, a wry smile?

I pick at stubborn blackened pine pitch in residence between my thumb and forefinger on my right hand.

“Sorry, I can’t remember, Lisa, but, it was something like that.”

Write about some shit I don’t want to think about? Don’t want to remember?

“Yeah, I think that’s it.”

Didn’t I just write two books about all that crap?

“Yeah.”

Good. Homework’s done.

He chuckles.

“I can’t think what to write either.”

He ekes this out between yawns.

Must be nice! “Can’t think what to write”….nice your world is so bloody calm.

Quiet laugh and he closes his eyes for one small second.

Are you tired?

“Yeah, I guess so.”

I study him for a minute. Today, he looks his age. He drives sick elders, waits for people’s dialysis appointments, and trundles folks with different abilities around the beautiful mid-coast all twelve-hour day — he’s probably bushed. He said he couldn’t get a woman in a wheelchair through the mercurially malfunctioning door on the van today. Go easy on him, for chrissakes, Lisa.

“Write about your imprisoned images.” Please. Leave it to Suze. Like I wanna do that. There’s lotsa images I don’t want to think about, ever! They haunt my dreams; if I didn’t shove those pictures down as deep as possible, I’d take to drink like a fish to water. A lot of 'em have to do with water, actually. Pretty easy envisioning horrors with a son who’s been fishing commercially since he was fourteen and an artist daughter who dances on the narrow edge of everything.

Water, water everywhere. I see things, have seen things: an ancient, wooden, Beals lobster boat, lines uncoiling, whipping like lightening back aft, blocks, pulleys gone awry, failed bilge pumps, decrepit, loosened cotton caulking busting from seams, seacocks unfastened, frozen hands working snarled line, icy, slippery gunwales, inaccurate forecasts for good wind when it’s gonna get real bad. Quick and wrong decisions.

Lots can go wrong on a fishing boat. Lots can go wrong fast on a fishing boat. Save your frail Hail Marys for eight miles off, you might need ‘em.

Michael’s sudden snore brings me back.

I shake off the watery images. For now.

“Imprisoned images” ?!!! PLEASE! Not dark enough for you with me around for the past forty four years, Buddy? My Suze Blues? Been a real cakewalk has it — being my best friend, loving me?

I know, I know what you’re trying to do, Writing Teach. But, don’t I already dig pretty deep? Weren’t you striving to help me find more light of late? If I write down my darkest images, I’m afraid they'll come true. There. I said it, named it. My fear. And, if I say it out loud, I think it’ll happen. Oh, how I give myself strange credit for wielding power!

Still, I’ll stick with the horrors that’ve already happened — are happening now.

That’s prison, horror enough.

Copyright © 2025 lisa stathoplos Slay Me, My Hapless Darlings

A favorite student, gone too tragically soon, and me.