He sat in the waiting room of a non-descript office. Inside a stale institutional brick building. No thought had been given to design nor comfort. The walls were claustrophobic, hung with gaudy velvet-background still lives. A series of tiny, barred, unwashed high windows filtered in dust-moted light. He thought it the most depressing room he ever had the bad luck to be stuck in.

Dressed uniformly in drab greys, people shuffled in and out of the office. “Prisoners of the system,” he thought. He hoped he never looked so bedraggled and downtrodden. No matter how long he was here.

Finally, an eternity later, his name was called. He blinked in the bright sunlit office space. A stooped figure stood at the huge picture window. “Come over here.” he said.

The view of the prison below was magnificent. The geometric figured domed cell-blocks gleamed in the summer sun. Bright flowers lined the walk-ways filled with visiting day guests. The unique prison garb made it difficult to distinguish guard from guarded.

Laughter drifted up to the office. The prison warden sighed and confessed to his visitor: “Many days I wish I was down there, rather than imprisoned up here.” (197)

(c) Lorraine

For Sunday Photo Fiction February 12, 2017; Photo © Sascha Darlington

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