Fall 2011 - The University of Scranton

Behind the Locked Door
John F. McGill
“You have seen how difficult it is to decipher the script with one’s eyes; but our man
deciphers it with his wounds”- Franz Kafka, “In the Penal Colony”
Behind the locked door, through the wooden frame, a skeletal
back opposes large clear windows that protrude unto open. The back’s
bottom, its dainty legs, rests upon a marbled window sill. The figure in
whole sits exposing his features. He sits doing so in an unadorned room.
He looks around. Unnoticed, the figure unknowingly exists beyond and
below where his window prospects. But the window stands tall and wide
allowing an airy interface.
He breathes his own as he sees in sight blackbirds spiraling above
towering, nebulous clouds. At such a distance distinctions diminish and
the black blurs whirl with plumes. Still, they move, as this figure follows
the flying creatures with his head, his brow and his eyes all the while while
they follow each other peripatetically: it all gets dizzying shortly.
Soon enough the figure pulls his head down to the tiled floor in
reaction. People come and go down the cobble lane, strolling and cycling,
chatting and clanging. The figure figures from this scenario it is best to
shade his shape and reveal nothing. So he counts the lines that grate the
ventilator, and though still and straight from the looks behind—only the
keyhole can glimpse bits of his back—the figure frantically configures
inside all that adds up. The lines do but the winds outside don’t: they
feel brisk, rushing inward upon his face uninvited. They frighten night in
their raging doldrums. The house hushes. Then all breathes in silence and
solitude absorbs.
The man blinks. Time has gone by for this figure, and though he
notices, he respects himself for not discerning now and then. Once and
again the chair faces the open window and his back faces the door, just
like yesterday and the day before; he has arranged it near the center of
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