"Black Holes"

This is one of the assignments from my Travel Writing class while here in South Africa:

This assignment consisted of choosing an object and writing a creative piece from the point of view of that object. I chose to write from the point of view of the censor pen in the Censor Room we saw in the prison. The Censor Room was where all the mail would come through and the prison wards would read the mail and black out or cut out most of the letter because they had the power to and for the purpose of stopping codes from being transferred in. Our tour guide said that most of the letters were unreadable by the time they got to their cell. Thinking about living in that cold cell and starving for a word from the outside world and then getting a blacked-out or cut up letter would bedevastating.

"Black Holes"

by, Jennifer B.

The clock on the gray wall methodically ticks keeping rhythm in the still air. It's nearly one-o-clock as I wait in anticipation. A few more minutes pass until a sharp click of the door signalssomeones entrance.

The mail bin is nearly full with letters from across the undulating waters. The prison ward dumps the contents spewing paper across the desk, his quick hands assemble them into stacks by prison section.

I anxiously await this ritual to finish: the prison ward sits and begins ripping the letters from their cozy envelopes examining the scribbles within. Finally, the moment arrives when the prison ward's rough hands grasp my smooth surface and pulls my cap off with a satisfying click.

I pour over the endless words scratched on paper - some words full of sorrow, encompassing thick tears of loneliness. I especially love leaving my thick black trail swallowing letters which the prison ward deems as code - as unnecessary words revealing news of home; lives continuing as the recipient shivers or sweats behind iron bars thirsting for these words I feast on. I can see the writer's faces wrinkled in concentration piecing letters together to form hope, comfort and sneaky codes. They think they can pass through unscathed, but the prison ward's eyes and my jet black ink miss nothing.

The squeal of my tip on the smooth paper echoes in the cold room until all the letters lay in piles marked and ripped to the prison ward's approval. Sullenly, my cap is pressed on and I'm laid back on the desk. The letters are complied back in the mail bin and carried out - ready to be distributed by the wards.

Left alone again in the empty censor room, I chew on the thoughts I erased feeling full with satisfaction, full of the lines of communication I severed. An island is not isolated enough for theserousers of chaos - they weave their trails of disorder even from behind iron. "Freedom fighters" they are called, though they are far from free.

Words are free. They can speak them in their cold cells, but the cost of "freedom fighting" means their words die and wither away by the time they reach blank parchment. Their hearing disappears so the words outside the island fall on deaf ears. I am the taker of words, the taker of their freedom, I am the censor pen.