Silenced
“The jury have found the defendant Guilty. James Williams, you’re sentence is 10 years imprisonment” The hardwood of the gavel hitting the block cracked into the air. It was final. “The court is adjourned.” *** The typewriter awaited like a trusty old friend. It’s keys were reassuringly heavy and mechanical. They danced to their own rhythm, as each crisp white sheet of paper became a work of art. “I saw poets erode into the darkness of America’s insecurities.” A work of art that was so unappreciated. So highly chastised. So wrong. “Their books, their manuscripts, their films; turned to ash.” A work of art that offered freedom. “Who committed no crime but their own wild imagination.” A work of art, that got you prosecuted. “To be liberal minded, was to to be dead” James wrote because it was liberating. Under the feeble glow of the dim lights, James wrote because he could create a utopia whilst living in a world that was not. Amongst the crumpled and torn pieces of paper James wrote because, until the government found out, he could. His fingers crashed onto the iron keys, hammering down on the black ribbon like hail in a storm, staining the page with taboo topics, controversial conversations and prohibited paragraphs. Words were spat from his mind to the paper, weaving them into a pattern that could provoke a wild array of responses and emotions. His writing was an outlet for him to say in public what is already known in private, it’s the only way the government could be stripped of their power. Sitting beneath the dim lit lamp that only moderately illuminated a small section of the rotting ceiling, James’ eyes glanced to the television that flickered black and white, the news anchor beamed on the screen; “The McCarthyism policy proves victorious once again, securing America's freedom by evicting Hollywood’s suspected communist Charlie Chaplin and undergoing intense investigation into further suspects in Hollywood Industry. Here is what Charlie Chaplin had to say for himself; "I have been the object of lies and propaganda by powerful reactionary groups who, by their influence and by the aid of America's yellow press, have created an unhealthy atmosphere in which liberal-minded individuals can be singled out and persecuted. James froze, devoting his attention back toward his workstation, his mind subconsciously picking up the words of Joseph McCarthy; “Our job as Americans and as republicans is to dislodge the traitors from every place where they’ve been sent to do their traitorous work” James knew he could very well be next. …show more content…
He distracted himself with the newspaper he bought this morning from the corner shop five minutes from his house. He pulled it out from beneath the complacent pile of paper on his desk, printed on the bottom left side of the page was an advertisement for the Six Gallery Reading. Tonight, on Friday the 7th of October, at 3119 Fillmore Street, San Francisco, James Williams will debut his next poem. Slamming the newspaper back down onto the desk, James reloaded his typewriter; he twisted the stiff dial to feed the paper through the worn black rollers. With determined sharp finger strokes, he constructed his next work of art; Slipping into a stiff black suit, it was time for the Six Gallery Reading. James walked through the door, the room was dark and smoky, the dusty white walls were lined with Avant Garde paintings and the floor was filled with tables. James made his way behind the stage, waiting for his name to be called; soon enough Kenneth Rexroth introduced James Williams. Clearing his throat, he begun; Do you see the Eagle? Do you see the eagle? Watch it, dear, for it will protect us. Never mind what it clasps in its claws; Your right to think, Your right to create, Your right to imagine. Well, what do you think of that? When, Actors are afraid to act Writers are afraid to write, and Producers are afraid to produce. The eagle soars on and I feel my consciousness eroding- In that instant, James’ was silenced Eight burly men dressed in crisp navy blue uniforms piled through the door, guns held
“The jury have found the defendant Guilty. James Williams, you’re sentence is 10 years imprisonment” The hardwood of the gavel hitting the block cracked into the air. It was final. “The court is adjourned.” *** The typewriter awaited like a trusty old friend. It’s keys were reassuringly heavy and mechanical. They danced to their own rhythm, as each crisp white sheet of paper became a work of art. “I saw poets erode into the darkness of America’s insecurities.” A work of art that was so unappreciated. So highly chastised. So wrong. “Their books, their manuscripts, their films; turned to ash.” A work of art that offered freedom. “Who committed no crime but their own wild imagination.” A work of art, that got you prosecuted. “To be liberal minded, was to to be dead” James wrote because it was liberating. Under the feeble glow of the dim lights, James wrote because he could create a utopia whilst living in a world that was not. Amongst the crumpled and torn pieces of paper James wrote because, until the government found out, he could. His fingers crashed onto the iron keys, hammering down on the black ribbon like hail in a storm, staining the page with taboo topics, controversial conversations and prohibited paragraphs. Words were spat from his mind to the paper, weaving them into a pattern that could provoke a wild array of responses and emotions. His writing was an outlet for him to say in public what is already known in private, it’s the only way the government could be stripped of their power. Sitting beneath the dim lit lamp that only moderately illuminated a small section of the rotting ceiling, James’ eyes glanced to the television that flickered black and white, the news anchor beamed on the screen; “The McCarthyism policy proves victorious once again, securing America's freedom by evicting Hollywood’s suspected communist Charlie Chaplin and undergoing intense investigation into further suspects in Hollywood Industry. Here is what Charlie Chaplin had to say for himself; "I have been the object of lies and propaganda by powerful reactionary groups who, by their influence and by the aid of America's yellow press, have created an unhealthy atmosphere in which liberal-minded individuals can be singled out and persecuted. James froze, devoting his attention back toward his workstation, his mind subconsciously picking up the words of Joseph McCarthy; “Our job as Americans and as republicans is to dislodge the traitors from every place where they’ve been sent to do their traitorous work” James knew he could very well be next. …show more content…
He distracted himself with the newspaper he bought this morning from the corner shop five minutes from his house. He pulled it out from beneath the complacent pile of paper on his desk, printed on the bottom left side of the page was an advertisement for the Six Gallery Reading. Tonight, on Friday the 7th of October, at 3119 Fillmore Street, San Francisco, James Williams will debut his next poem. Slamming the newspaper back down onto the desk, James reloaded his typewriter; he twisted the stiff dial to feed the paper through the worn black rollers. With determined sharp finger strokes, he constructed his next work of art; Slipping into a stiff black suit, it was time for the Six Gallery Reading. James walked through the door, the room was dark and smoky, the dusty white walls were lined with Avant Garde paintings and the floor was filled with tables. James made his way behind the stage, waiting for his name to be called; soon enough Kenneth Rexroth introduced James Williams. Clearing his throat, he begun; Do you see the Eagle? Do you see the eagle? Watch it, dear, for it will protect us. Never mind what it clasps in its claws; Your right to think, Your right to create, Your right to imagine. Well, what do you think of that? When, Actors are afraid to act Writers are afraid to write, and Producers are afraid to produce. The eagle soars on and I feel my consciousness eroding- In that instant, James’ was silenced Eight burly men dressed in crisp navy blue uniforms piled through the door, guns held