The Field in The Attic

The door is musty fusty rusty .

It is made of wood, good, snood.

Rhyming calms, balms, psalms me.

yes it soothes me, moods me, smooths me.

 I can stop if I wish, fish, swish, dish. 

No matter what they say, lay, bay, fey.

 I wonder where the door leads, feeds, needs.

 I will not open it today, ray, may. 

I will now go , and sleep, deep, keep. 

They visited me, be, see. 

They brought food, good, mood.

They forgot I dislike tomatoes, chose, close.

They put tomato juice, tomato fruit, tomato sauce, tomato sandwich, which, switch, witch.

I visit the door, once more, lore. 

I go in, min, fin, din.

Inside it is a wooden room swirling with tiny dust mites in the sunlight, fight, right, tight.

It appears to be an attic, flick, tick.

I walk around the edges, ledges, hedges.

I lay down in the middle and stare at the ceiling, feeling, reeling, keeling.

Then I am lying somewhere else.

 Blue.

 And gold. 

Light,  blue skies, gold field slightly swaying. 

They cover forever.

 I am under the only marker in this field. 

A tree. 

A small short stooped shade providing tree. 

I stand.

Then the field ripples, a tide moving towards me.

It is wind.

Wind blowing the field, and tickling the tree.

The wind blows me a newspaper article.

It is written by an E.K.B

It is written about ;

Hours spent in a cramped, dark, factory.

Day or night, hours, years, time lays still, still for an eternity.

Heads bent, backs cramped, eyes strained, doors locked, minutes noted, breaths counted, humans/numbers.

Blood from fingers drips, out the door, out the street, up the stairs- neverending, in the door, to 

the sheets piled on top of weary shivering bodies, who haven't made enough to splurge on coal for a few moments of warmth.

Then the body tries to sleep to stop the aching gnaw at their stomach.

Then they start again.

The newspaper article is written about needs, need for smaller hours, bigger cheques, bandages, and windows . 

I am done reading. 

The wind whispers to me as if asking me what I think. 

I don't know what to think.

 I have a bad feeling from that paper. 

Anger. 

But dull. 

Like a club, not a knife. 

I lie down under the tree.

I am back again.

Staring at the dull wood, snood, food. 

The light is not plentiful and golden, ten, men, glen.

 It is  white and in short supply, try, my. 

I stand up, cup, mup. 

It is night, fight, light, sight. 

I walk up to my bedroom, fume, loom.

I sleep, peep, deep.

I wake up, tup, cup.

But stay in bed, fed, led.

The next day I go to the door at the same time, lime, rhyme, mime.

I walk in, bin, min. 

I lie down, sown, town.

I am back.

In the field.

This time, no sooner am in the field, when a newspaper article arrives.

E.K.B writes;

Women, working, tirelessly to make home happy.

Women harassed in the streets, on the bus, on the train, at work.

Called to, whistled at, violated.

Women, truly, girls forced to become women, sold off for dowry to husbands their father's age.

Women beat behind closed doors, who don't speak out because who will feed their children, who is going to oppose the man, for the woman?

Women paid a quarter of what Men are, for twice the work.

The newspaper article is written about needs,

needs for respect, safety, equality.

I am done reading. 

As before, the wind whispers to me as if asking me what I think. 

I don't know what to think.

 I have a negative feeling from that paper. 

Anger. 

Dull, but sharper than before.

Like a letter opener , not a knife.

I lie down under the tree.

I am back again.

Staring at the ceiling, feeling, keeling.

Not sky, try, lie.

Again it is night, fight, right.

I go up the stairs, layers, players.

But in my bed, shed, lead.

I cannot sleep, deep, keep.

I feel a dread, lead, said.

A feeling emitting from my memories, reveries, enemies.

I do not know why.

I wake up in the morning, storming.

I get up, and pace the floor, till it is time, to open the attic door, moor, poor.

I see the windows, I peek out the windows, and notice the sky is a deep blue, rue, too.

Clouds pass lazily through, few, moo.

I wonder when I can go out, shout, doubt.

And then I wonder why I can't go out now, allow, sow.

And then I remember, September, December.

The Men don't allow it, fit, kit.

I visit the attic, fanatic, static.

I lie down, sown, crown.

I am in the field.

The newspaper, no newspapers, there are two-  are waiting for me.

In my hands, I hold the paper, worn with time.

It seems impatient for me to read it.

I read it.

In the first E.K.B. writes,

Christians. 

Some go to one Church.

Others go to another.

They fight.

Over who is right.

They shun one another in the streets.

But aren't they all believers of the Bible ?

On Friday Muslims go to a Mosque. 

On Saturday Jews go to a Synagogue.

On Sunday Christians go to Church. 

The grocer on 3rd street won't sell to a Jew.

Amd the housewife on 4th Street spits at the Muslim's gate.

But don't we all believe in One God?

The Hindu on 6th street can't walk in the park without people stopping to stare, and mothers huddling their kids, and whispering.

The Buddhist on 10th street can't walk past the bakery without the baker's wife crossing herself.

But don't Christians, Hindus, and Buddhists believe in being kind?

Then in the second, E.K.B writes; 

Two children playing in the park. Laughing, tumbling, running.

Their throats go dry.

 So they cross the street where there are three drinking fountains. Two have the letters W on them. One, that has the letter C on it, is occupied. 

The two children both drink from the ones with the W on it. 

In a moment, a man comes, and shouts! 

One child of the two shouldn't be drinking from that fountain! He shoved that child. Because, the color of a child, the age where he doesn't yet know to read, should already know cruelty.

The newspaper article is written about needs. Needs for Respect, Equality. Safety.

I feel a bad feeling emitting from the paper. 

An anger. 

Sharper than before. 

But not cutting. 

Yet. 

A Knife, not a dagger.

 Yet.

I lie down under the tree.

Night, fight sight.

The next morning I wake up, tup, cup.

 And I look at the windows, shows, knows.

And I stay that way, ray, may.

People pass, mass.

One young man looks up, cup,tup.

He jeers, peers, sears.

Later a girl comes by, fly, tie.

She points, her father looks up too, shoo, cue.

He hurries her away, lay, may.

Later a woman passes, masses.

She meets my eye, shy, fie.

Her own has regret, and pity, in it, twit, flit.

Then I go to the attic, static, tic.

When I am in the field, there are 2 articles, on my chest, anxious for me to read them.

In the first-

E.K.B. writes, 

Hospitals in which the sick are crowded.

Confined small rooms that smell of death.

People afflicted with different infectious diseases breathing the same air.

Sheets bear stains of blood, phlegm, and death.

Doctors rush in and out.

Most try to give a word of comfort.

Others don't look at the wretched, because the disease doesn't just infect the body by touch, but infect the mind, and pride by sight.

E.K.B. writes in the second-

Asylums- 

The poor on the streets, as sane as you, who were spoiling the view, locked up, and labelled insane. 

Immigrants who were thought to speak gibberish, captured too.

Eccentrics a little odd, but as harmless as a child, locked away from the light of day.

Others, people who have illness in their minds, who should be treated kindly, are scolded, and chained, like a dog who has misbehaved.

'"You are a donkey-now pull the cart- you are a donkey and shall be whipped. " Who to complain to? 

Food that is rotted, and water that's brown- makes those that come in lucid- mad.

The newspaper article is written of NEEDs- Kindness, Sanitation, Safety.

I read. I am angry. The anger is sharp and stabbing. I do not want to lie down. I want to stomp. I stomp. I fall. I cry. I lie down.

I am back in the attic, fanatic, tic, static.

I do not go out of the room, broom, zoom.

I stay, may, play.

The whole night, fight, right.

In the morning. I look about me, tree, tea.

I search for something, ring, ding.

I am not sure what, rut, nut.

I will know it, when I see it, flit, twit.

I find a box, fox, rocks.

The contents, cements, dents.

Are, star, mar.

A typewriter, fighter.

Paper, savor, later.

An envelope, elope.

With a manuscript in it, minute.

I read, feed, seed.

Corporations restricting newspaper content. Corporations paying police force to hush reporters.

Corporations threatening reporters.

Obstruction of Justice.

Freedom of speech violated.

It is written about Safety.

Soon, I lie down, and find myself in the field again.

There is no newspaper article waiting for me. 

Instead there is a court order.

Elizabeth Katherine Bly is  found guilty to charges of slander, and destruction to the peace, sentenced to House Arrest, and a strict prohibition on having her writing published. This shall last till her death. 

I sit. 

And the fields are silent. 

And I do not feel anger anymore.

Just a sort of sadness.

And when I finally lie down.

And when I am back in the attic.

I notice the small label on the typewriter, with my initials on it.

E.K.B.

And I think.