“What are you doing?”
“What do you mean what am I doing? I’m sitting here staring at the moon.”
“In the dark?”
“Yes, in the dark.
Frank saw the moon, a pure white image, peeking through a crack in the shutters. It was a tiny point of light changing shape and size when Frank moved back and forth.
Is anyone reading my words, Frank thought? Is there anyone out there? Am I hurtling these words to no one? If you’re out there, where are you? Does God read these words? If so where is he?
This isn’t the first time Frank had wondered where God or anyone else was. This wasn’t the first time Frank had called out. Frank imagined himself on an island under an inky black sky, bright stars
He sent his words, his thoughts pulsing out; a radio armature calling through the static trying to reach anyone.
But no one was there to read his words, listen to his thoughts. He got up and went back to the living room–his prison–where he was forced to ingest a steady diet of sporting events and old television shows. The games and episodes pushed under the bars of his mental cell.
There was no escape. No Leaving.
“What’s on next? I want to see Texas versus Beaver State.”
Frank changed the station slumping down in the sofa wondering what was going on in the streets of Paris? It didn’t matter. It was First and Four. That’s what really mattered First and Four.