No Way Out

No Way Out - just saying the words upsets me. My muscles tighten. My breathing becomes labored. I protest. I fight. There is always a way out

I wanted to write about cats, mysterious cats. But no, someone had to suggest. "No Way Out." And now I see no way I can escape from doing this. Maybe the cats will show me the way out. Ha! Ha!

I'm supposed to use my imagination. Sure, just like I used my imagination when I described my wife's trip, "floating down the Potomac River." She went down the river alright, clean to the bottom with her suitcase full of rocks, tied to her. Then I used my imagination when I wrote about the perfect murder. Except that it wasn't all that perfect. How did I know some of the members of my writing group were cops.

Those amateur writers found all kinds of holes in my plans. That damn writing group taught me not to write about "what I know." I had to join a new writer's group, The Penned Pens, and now I have to write about "No Way Out."

It makes me think of cement floors, thick walls with no windows so that not even the mind can escape for a while through the eyes. Thick ceilings even keep my soul from escaping.

Appeals - tried them. My descriptive writing was too good, the details too exact. Death - too final. Insanity - it is just using your imagination. No one would believe I was insane? Would I be less trapped in a hospital?

I must find a way out. But first, I have to write about "No Way Out." What a topic to give a prison writing group.

I feel sick. I want to write about cats. Cats are my friends. I thought writers were, but they put me here and now they punish me more. How much can a person take? I must find a way out.




Members:

·Jo Donaldson

·Catherine Donaldson

·John Donaldson



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