Liberation

By Jonathan Webb, aged 10

Darkness. The thin, grasping fingers of darkness are all around me, clutching at my skeletal frame. They suddenly retract in a quick, contorting movement. Pitch black again. The guard has chosen someone else to see the light. They have reached the end of their sentence. My prison envelops me again. I’m lying on my back, the thick, cold walls closing in around me. In the coal-dark blackness I feel like a hungry leopard stalking light.

My prison is guarded by a man called Will. I don’t know much about him. He was the one who flung me in here. I hear sinister scratching outside, shouts of frustration and sharp, short snaps, followed by a two-beat thud on the floor. It’s strange, though, sometimes I hear cries sounding triumphant but these always come much later. Where do my fellow prisoners go and what happens to them?

It’s a joyful experience to escape in my own dark, shadowy mind. I don’t know whether these visions are memories, predictions or my imagination but they bring me comfort. My visions are usually of thrilling, heroic adventures or daring escapes from countries where a murder has been committed. Sometimes, I feel the heat of a dragon’s breath in the icy chill of my cell. Today in the velvety blackness, I see three foul, wicked witches and an enormous, stone behemoth of a castle. I shrink from this vision but am drawn to its power. Like a swan, I slowly drift out of my joyful visions to the coldness of reality.

The darkness is sliced open as if a sword has cut through bone as the hand plunges into my cell. The hand is rummaging, ripping around, yet, as the fingers brush me, they are tenderer than I had imagined. I am confused: I don’t know whether to push myself forward and present myself or shrink back, hoping to escape later. My brain feels as if it is being torn apart with confusion yet I only have a second to decide. In a spurred moment of glory I rush forward into the path of the grasping fingers and feel the welcoming hand clasping around me. I am slowly lifted from my prison and see the light of day once more like a majestic lion returning from a successful hunt.

As I look back, I see the lid of a rosewood box, sliding back over my fellow prisoners. The hand shakes my soft white feather and runs its fingers down to my sharp tip. I am slowly dipped down into refreshing, shadowy blue ink. This is my chance to shine as I think of ferocious battles, fiendish witches and an ambitious man. I shiver with exhilarated triumph as the landscapes of freedom unfold before me. As my tip touches the crisp, snow-white paper, I stare down at the page and see the words, “Macbeth, by William Shakespeare”.