Illustration by Mike Tandrow
Day 1
I am imprisoned, even pinioned, at the back of this dark cell of a closet.
Day 2
I am imprisoned, even pinioned, at the back of this dark cell of a closet.
Day 3
I am imprisoned, even pinioned, at the back of this dark cell of a closet.
Day 4
I am STILL imprisoned, even pinioned, at the back of this dark cell of a closet
Day 5
I was not shaped for this. I was born for better things.
Day 6
My rage grows. I am getting louder.
Day 7
It is the seventh day. It is not a day of rest. I am plotting how to bring down my captors and force them to grant me my liberty. I long to crow with full-throated pride and a full-bodied swagger. I heard them muttering — their guttural, sheepish sounds are the kind that fall flat on the floor and then crawl under the nearest door. I know what they intend. A lifetime of imprisonment. I know also there is one opportunity for liberty at last.
Day 8
My metamorphosis is coming. She is coming. My maker. The goddess who chose my materials, took all my measurements with loving care, cut into the bold cloth from which I am made, and sewed me together. I am the Loud Check Suit. I am orange on magenta, with thin lapels that flare at the top. I am piped in green and lined in gold. I am polyester. I AM AWESOME.
My creator is coming. They are forced to release me. The goddess who created me also created the woman. But I am meant for him, the man who holds back his awe and reverence.
Day 9
I am imprisoned, even pinioned, at the back of this dark cell of a closet.
Day 10
I am STILL imprisoned, even pinioned, at the back of this dark cell of a closet.
Day 11
She has come. I hear her call — even carol — out greetings, and I know I get my boldness from her, my maker. I can hear her stories and jokes, which do not fall thudding on the floor and then slide like sludge under doors. They pierce through the very walls and come to me, me, who desperately need a sound that answers my boldness. I feel my sheen. At last. I am.
Day 12
He has brought me from my confinement. He has dressed himself in my colors. He at last looks like a fop, a dandy, a man instead of a thing half-clay and half-dung. I make him new. He is all smiles as we greet my maker. He privately loves the feel of the loud check suit he stowed at the back of the closet.
Who wouldn’t?
great story.