XX - XP - XXXX
S. Michaud
I write not as a will, nor as an explanation, nor as a comedy, nor as a testimony, nor as a legacy. I write simply because I am bored. Bored to the brink of insanity! I detest my pen but will guide it anyway, driven by that madness—or rather, merely, the brink of it. How can a man withstand this prison, as long and as silent as I have, and still be sane?
“Prison?” a stranger might ask (those who know me wouldn’t bother). “Are you a criminal? What law have you broken?” I swear unto you, stranger: I have offended no law, besides perhaps the laws of Nature and Society. I speak often in riddles and in metaphors, much to my few associates' dismay; however, I hardly exaggerate. (Don’t trust my word—how can you?)
This room is my cell, this bed is my chain. The nurse is the warden. Said nurse is, unfortunately for me, adequate at her job. She is a stubborn old hag who won’t give even an inch! I respect her for it, though. In my short, sickly years and limited interactions, she is what I might call ‘wise.’ However, that might say more about me than her. How did I come to this! The hag deserves no more, not even an inch.
I say “no more!” when I still need more. Why am I bothering to write? I repeat, I detest my pen. It does I, as well! My written vomit is a disgrace to all who hold, have ever held, and will hold a pen; Shakespeare frowns, Poe cries! (Let him, and him!) I am tone deaf and off-key, singing a different song every verse, and forgetting the melody. Why do I bother? Why do I torment my hands, my paper?
My father would whip me if he knew what I was asking, and reasonably so. One of his many maxims was to “not ask questions you already have the answers to.” I am bored, yes, but I must admit there’s more to my reasons. Spite drives me. I’m aware of my acts: for what I will to do, that I do not practice; but what I hate, that I do (Forgive me, Saint Paul). I do what I loathe because I loathe it! I spite my preferences, I spite my pen, for I will not let them confine or dictate me. I have wanted nothing more (do not believe me) in my short time than to spite all that confines me—to be free!
Ah, I crave freedom! How unique, how recherché. I will not debate with you, strangers, the “true” meaning of freedom, because it only has one meaning: without confinement. This is my one solid desire (do not, again); the one and only dream that soothes… granted I’m not haunted by terrors, deprived by my mind, or awoken by my lungs. Since I want, I do not have. So, I ask you, stranger: how? How will I soothe my appetite? How do I leave this room, this prison, under the nose of my watchful guard, to explore God’s wonderfully terrible world? To the outside, the freedom!
“Well, have you tried the door?” Stranger, you fool! You devil! You must be teasing me. The door leads nowhere, except to more rooms and more cells. This “home” is a prison! Even if I crawled my body down the stairs and out the front door, to the outside, it would lead me nowhere! Are you a child? An infant? Can you not comprehend? You must know all of this; stop your teasing. I said it; I’m sure of it! The door would not lead to freedom because the door is a confinement in itself. Do you understand now? The door has a handle; it cannot lead to freedom! It was meant to be opened; it was meant to be entered through and exited through. It offers itself. It is a confinement.
The “outside” the door gives is fake, a phony. It only appears to be the real thing, but it lacks its true value. “Oh, how picky can you be? A cheap meal is still a meal; the ‘cheap’ outside is still outside!” Ah, stranger, you fool, still! You prick! I refuse to—I physically cannot—compromise on my desires, on my solo will to live. I’d sooner forfeit my life! I will not go through the door that is offered; I will not compromise!
I stand by this: offered freedom is not true freedom. This shouldn’t be difficult to understand, infant. True freedom is taken, not provided. Simply because if you are confined to what is offered to you, what is given to you, you are not free. You are only free if you take. Deny what is given and take what’s not yours: the right! “The right to what?” The right to exit! “Well, how can one exit the room if not by the door, so as not to compromise?” Do you not know, stranger? Can you not read, child? The solution is simple, so simple that you’ll smack yourself: the window.
End of chapter
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142,215 Literary Works • 676,903 Reviews
Have put this on my TBR earlier than you’ve already requested it which is why you had to wait until now for me to read it. Slowly working myself down the list here =D
Hmmm wonder if this is a date of some kind? Or code?I think you have a very strong opening paragraph here. Earlier I read something where a person starts to talk abt their own situation and felt like something was missing from the opening paragraph. Can say that this isn’t the case for your story. It feels very immersive :3
I like this detail!
Kinda have to think of Victor Frankenstein all of a sudden….
Kinda speaks of resentment for the only choice of caretaker he currently has, huh?
I love this Einschub! I feel like this is so characteristic of the writing style you are going for and I feel like I’m back in German class reading old stories from the before times! Very well done!
I also like how he constantly tells us not to believe him. I keep wondering what really brought him into this sick room.
I am a bit sceptical abt the use of recherché here. Is this common in English? Because to me this reads as “how unique, how researched” and… this makes no sense to me?
Hmmm as the stranger and as having listen to this man rave in his despised diary or whatever he’s presenting us with, I wouldn’t ask him “have you tried the door” bc it sounds like he can’t. He’s chained to the bed. Probably can only move his hands which is why he can still write. I have the feeling that he’s in some sorta sanatorium so the corridor outside will have more rooms with other patients…
Okay, this sequence chilled me. A door that is meant to be opened as managed “freedom”, approved time “outside”, like yard time in a prison. I like this. It’s haunting.
I feel like this is the logical conclusion to this mad thinking. Very well handled, you walked us through his thoughts so effectively, that I understood immediately. This is the only way he can see this. Thank you.
Ohh I am curious where this will go now that he has decided the door is the propaganda of his jailors. Can he leave? Is he physically capable or is he too ill to attempt the window?
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Thank you for the review. I won’t confirm or deny anything about Michaud’s circumstances just yet. As for “recherché,” I was borrowing it as an English adjective in the sense of something rare, overly refined, or deliberately affected. Michaud is being deliberately pretentious there to exaggerate his point, so I’m quite happy to let him show off his vocabulary. Your interpretation is fair, though. Thank you again for reading. There will be more letters soon.
I'm glad you found my comments helpful. I do be looking forward to the other letters :3
I didn't know English had claimed recherché like that @.@ Wieder was gelernt~
A Butterfly has landed to review your work! <3
Hello ADNG! A Butterfly has landed to review your work, and this chapter seems right up their alley, with the narrator’s voice taking such a prominent role. S. Michaud’s use of the “stranger” motif is brilliant – contradicting himself almost constantly, insulting his own work, and yet becoming more interesting for it all the same.
The Egg
The first thing that stood out to me was how the narrator portrayed himself, being so self-contradictory and yet so openly aware of it.
“I write simply because I am bored. Bored to the brink of insanity!”
It almost sounds as if he is joking, but there is a certain desperation in his words that makes it clear that he most certainly does not mean it. I liked that the first chapter began with the narrator questioning both himself and his surroundings.
The Caterpillar Hatches
I thought the whole idea of his prison being the room, the bed, the nurse, and even the house itself was brilliant. It shows a level of internalization of his imprisonment that is pretty staggering he respects the nurse, and yet the thought of living outside the house terrifies him. Speaking of which, I liked how the narrator kept referring to the stranger, as if he were really there and not some figment of his imagination.
Growing & Molting
I loved the maxim about asking unnecessary questions – it really highlighted the character’s self-loathing, didn’t it? It made his quest seem all the more desperate, as if nothing and nobody could tell him what to do. The mention of St. Paul was also a nice touch, as it gave the chapter a certain… flavor, if you excuse the expression.
Spinning the Chrysalis
One of my favorite parts, really. It was so incredibly fitting for the chapter’s themes for the narrator to bring up the idea of freedom. “Offered freedom is not true freedom,” he said, and I have to admit, I found myself agreeing with him. It was refreshing to see such a take on freedom and confinement, really.
The Transformation
This scene was incredible it almost felt as if the writer had taken a scalpel to the very idea of freedom and cut it open, revealing all the nastiness underneath. By refusing the offered key, the narrator basically states that true freedom is not having a key at all, and I found that extremely profound, actually. Yes, it is a strange kind of freedom, but is it not real?
Wings Taking Shape
Speaking of freedom, I thought the way the narrator insulted and berated the stranger was really great! “Infant,” he cries and yet the stranger is, in a way, him as well. It made me wonder how much of this was really directed at the stranger and how much at himself. It gave the whole thing a very theatrical feel, almost as if the narrator was performing for whomever or whatever the stranger was.
Breaking Free
You see, I rather liked the window. “The solution is simple…” The chapter practically screams at the reader to ask itself, and the reader, what the difference between the two could be. Was one really an exit and the other not? Was it the absence of a key that made the window a prison as well?
First Flight
I thought this was a fantastic chapter for the series it is part of it is, for all intents and purposes, mostly philosophy. I liked that, actually it made the piece feel right at home in the very name of the book. I wonder where this is all going will you, the narrator, continue challenging the concept of freedom in later letters?
Favorite Nectar
I liked the distinction between the key and the door or rather, between the two things that could serve as an exit but only do so, in the narrator’s opinion, partially. I thought the whole thing was incredibly fitting for the opening chapter of the book, really. The narrator may have been mad, ranting and raving about seemingly nonsensical things, but underneath it all, there was a burning question whether true freedom even exists. And yes, the very fact that the narrator was mad and mad only added to the message. You were mad and mad about the right things, and not about the wrong, so I think that was fitting too. Oh, and Shakespeare and Poe catching strays was hilarious!
Lovely opening! <3
Thank you for the review. I am exceedingly pleased that Michaud’s ramblings have received such serious consideration. Your thoughts on the stranger, particularly the possibility that Michaud is simply arguing with himself, were especially interesting to me. There are more letters to come, so keep an eye out.
This is really very well written, with barely any areas of improvement. I shan't compliment you mercilessly, though, out of respect to your ego ;D.
What works well:
- Mood
- Character interiority
- Chain of thought is particularly nicely done
Chef's kiss
Small niggling issues:
This reads too edgy :/ Much more edgy than the rest of the piece lmao. Small edits here and there will fix them. Honestly, just remove the final parenthetical and that should fix it; the narrator has been established as unreliable already by your writing style.
"Said nurse" just breaks my immersion! It feels too... edgelord-y.
I lie and cry, "no more!". Just an edit suggestion
There's just small moments, like the above, where the monologue crosses the border from insane/unreliable narrator into Reddit edgelord. Nix them, and you're golden!
Love it
Thank you. My ego has only been inflated to an appropriate amount. I may have gotten too far in and pulled out my inner edgelord with this one. Perhaps because I viewed the narrator as a young, simple man. Thank you for each of your suggestions; each is very helpful.
Hello there, human! I'm reviewing using the YWS S'more Method today!
Shalt we commence with the spooky S’more?
Top Graham Cracker - This is a letter from S. Michaud, who is confined to his room and being cared for by a nurse. He wants freedom, but not through the door. It’s through the window.
Slightly Burnt Marshmallow - I have no recommendations to make as of right now, but if you would like to edit this, you may.
Chocolate Bar - I like that the narrator kind of criticizes the reader for even suggesting that he use the door, because it shows how little that he thinks of them and how he thinks that only he himself can understand his pain. I also like that while he still doesn’t like the nurse he still respects her lol.
Closing Graham Cracker - Overall, a lovely letter on a guy at the brink of insanity! I have enjoyed reading this and if you wish to write more of the letters then I will be certain to read them. And now…
I wish you a fabulous day/night! ^v^
Thank you. I will write more soon.
Yw!