Sheep

"Sheppard! Get in line, NOW!!"

"Geez, you hear what this sicko did to those guys?"

"Yeah, it's like Hannibal Lecter meets Wolf a' Wall Street..."

"Hey! HEY! Moneybags! You gonna carve me up too!?"

“Shut it, he’s right there…”

“...already hungry, man…”

"Keep moving! Both lines!"

"Oh, G-God... What am I duh... doing here…?"

“All’m saying is, if you keep it down you might make it to-”

"GAAAAAAWWWD, PLEASE I DON'T DESERVE THIS!!"

"SHUT UP!!"

"Sakes alive, don't these guys have any dignity?"

"...yeah, with an effin' meat cleaver..."

Most people don't realize the power of being silent. Silence can be used to unsettle or to mark a poignant moment. Either way, it carries immense weight, constantly threatening to crush us; it's why we tend to talk just a bit too much or hurriedly attempt to fill the gaps in conversation. If mastered, silence is a potent weapon, and an infinitely useful tool. Commonly overlooked, however, is the power of listening.

"ALL RIGHT! In your cells! Speakman, hit the doors."

The rusty bars grated to the side as the guards began shoving the inmates two-by-two into their stone abodes. Some were groveling, shaking, begging Jesus to deliver them in different tongues. The rest were grim and resolute, mourning in morbid resignation. 

Almost all had their eyes on Toby Sheppard. He drifted into his cell in total compliance. Not that the guards would have touched him anyway. He merely surveyed his dingy surroundings: a once-stainless-steel sink, a currently stained cot, and a toilet with stains beyond description. After easing down onto the cot, quietly, he gazed at the cracks in the opposite wall.

Once all the inmates shuffled in, the captain hollered, "DOORS!" The cell doors grinded to a nauseating shut.

"Meals will be at dawn, noon, and dusk!! All prisoners will be up at dawn or miss meals the whole day!! Lights out at 10pm!!"

The prisoner in the cell right of Sheppard let out a long, aggravated sigh. The prisoner in the left cell sniffled quietly.

There was something intricate about those cracks in the walls. They would dance and cascade, becoming deeper and shallower. Sheppard traced each strand to its end, as though observing tiny streaks of gravel lightning.

"Any behavior considered hostile to facility personnel, or another inmate will be punished!"

"Heh, right..." chortled Prisoner on the Right, under his breath. Prisoner on the Left remained silent.

"You will be assigned jobs on the roster in the chow hall in the morning!!! Be present or you will be punished!!" The captain's voice bounced off the cell block's walls and rattled the bars on the doors.

"That is all for now!!" The guards and captain withdrew back into the bowels of the facility. A murmur grew amongst the inhabitants of Cell Block D.

"Look at all these little fish..."

"Geez, is he wetting himself?"

"What's my wife gonna do?"

"...is that the broker guy?"

"...hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom..."

"I don't deserve to be in here with these nuts!"

"...took 'em two days to clean the carpets, I heard..."

"...ckin filthy in here..."

"...payin taxes to..."

"...think he's watching us?"

"Creep..."

Listening gives us insights we might not otherwise have. It’s like a superpower, of sorts. Pair it with silence and, oh boy, you've got something truly special. But in a world of talkers, the one who remains silent is viewed as enigmatic, even dangerous. A reasonable assumption. Like sheep, we desperately herd together and drown ourselves in conversation: bleating and bleating, keeping the discomfort of silence away.

-

As the sun sunk under the prison windows, all the inmates were returned to their cells, grumbling about that evening's main course. The clanging and grating of the doors swirled around the block like an echo chamber. As the last inmates filed in, the captain barked,

"Lights out in two hours!!"

The prisoners began talking amongst each other as before, swapping stories, learning each other's histories with the law.

Everyone from the tax dodger to the thrice incarcerated dealer knew about Toby Sheppard, the former broker. His name was in all the prison papers, so they were all easily acquainted with it by the time the day came to a close. It was also why no one chose to approach him as he would stare off into space during the rec hours or meals. There he sat, laying still in his cot like a contemplative cadaver.

"...you in for?"

"...swear if it weren't for those suits from the IRS..."

"...got this one in a bar fight..."

"Gnarly..."

"...you read 'bout that?"

"Tired as..."

"...hell, man. Course I did; spoiled my appetite."

"...kind of a name is To-"

"Be quiet, man, what if he hears you?"

"Nah, he's probably asleep..."

"...cold in here..."

"He's two doors down, of course he can..."

Of course, Sheppard could.

"...did he do?"

"...got me on a DUI charge..."

"...all those polished stiffs over on Wall Street..."

"...can barely walk now, my knee's all..."

"...'em up, left little pieces like a finger or a foot..."

"...What in the..."

"...made out with a bunch of cash, makes you wonder why..."

"...him right there? He don't look..."

"...was already rich..."

"...amn mess, I tell you, just a..."

“...don’t even think he did all that…”

"...left what?"

"Notes, man, for the police..."

"...hanging from the frickin' ceiling fan..."

"...would he leave a trail?"

"...holy Mother of..."

“...a whole month to find him….”

“...leave us in here with him?” 

“...ever in my life see a grown cop cry…” 

“..serves ‘em right…”

"...psycho..."

"...said he felt like it..."

"...three poor suits turned into spaghetti sauce."

"Four."

Half the cell block went silent. Prisoner on the Right spat, "What'd you say?"

Everyone noticed Sheppard was standing up and leaning against his

cell door.

"Four," he repeated, before turning back and laying back down in the rusty cot.

The temperature dropped about ten degrees in Cell Block D. Prisoner on the Left vomited on the floor of his cell.

Yes, holding one's tongue is a formidable skill. The person who is slow to speak holds a certain influence over the cacophonic masses. They wonder with bated breath what goes on behind those closed lips and those wandering eyes. With each moment a word goes unsaid, the sheep herd tighter and tighter, suffocating each other. All the while, the quiet shepherd merely waves his crook. A crook for crooks. Haha. Indeed, silence is a terrifying skill, but it becomes even more dangerous if one knows just when to break it.