It’s too late now. I could have avoided all of this. But now It’s too late, and I have to run. I need to lose them. I’ll have to re-create myself. Start fresh. This is what I always wanted. But I was too scared. I could have waited longer and figured it out more. Made a better plan for my escape, and decided what I would do once I was free.

But now I’m running. And I’m getting closer to the city. I’ll be able to blend in, but they can call in reinforcements and there will be more people to see me running and suspect things. I need to lose them before we hit the surround wall. Once I come from under the overpass, I need to be nonchalant. There will be so many eyes.

The voices are getting more distant. I dare not look back. Not that it would inform any sort of decision at this point anyway. Either way, I need to keep running like hell. But there must be something to do to throw them off. I have a stolen bottle of shampoo in my backpack. I also have a broken beer bottle, but I need to hold on to that. It’s my only weapon. I planned on using the shampoo to build an explosive eventually. I figured it must be possible because of the way that you can’t carry shampoo on to airplanes. But there will be plenty more time to obtain shampoo once I’m in the city. Once I’m free.

Of course I won’t really be free. It’ll never be the way that it once was. Even after the deed is done. But perhaps that’s better. It took the last 5 years of confinement for me to realize how far I had been from really being free. How strong their hold was on me. They were all in on it. I can’t believe nobody else saw it. But soon I’ll fix it. I just need to get my hands on some more shampoo, and maybe some wire.

The ground is beginning to get more firm. I’ll be able to get a bit of a lead before they come out of the sand. My tracks will become less apparent. I’ll throw the bottle in to the creek to draw them here. Then dash to the right and lay low until they head off in another direction. Hopefully they’ll assume that I stepped through the creek to cross it, and they’ll go left.

I’m laying in the ivy. They’ve hesitated. They suspect something. They are examining the shampoo. The bald one is looking directly at me, but I’m fully in shadow, there’s no way he can see me.

They take off to the left. Someone thought they heard something. Thank god. Through some branches I can see the tower. I start walking. Slowly, quietly. With its rotating floodlight, the tower is like a landlocked lighthouse. We thought it would be such a great thing. We thought it would make us all feel safe and relaxed. They painted it the most disgustingly cheery white.

I have reached the wall. They’ve started locking the gates under the overpasses. Maybe it’s just because it’s night. Luckily the lock is rusted on this one. One calculated tap with a large rock knocks it right off. I waste no time sneaking through, for fear that the sound of the breaking lock had attracted the attention of a guard.

There’s bright light on the other end. And it’s just as I remembered it. Only there’s something disgusting. Something in the pit of my stomach. I know this will never be home again. I wish I had a hat to put on. Instead I just shove my hands in my pockets, bow my head, and walk. I become one with the bustle. Lost in the crowd. I’m free, but in a way it’s worse. In confinement at least I could act like a prisoner. I could cry. I could shout. I could talk to my self. Here I’m just as much of a prisoner, but I have to hide it. Just keep your head down and shut up. All the more reason to be quick about acting. It’s not like I have a place to sleep anyway, and they may have already launched a search party. I remember exactly where the parliament building is. I take a left on main, heading towards the super market. Aisle 7. Hair care.

Reflections
The man and the octopus sit at the table. The room is dark. Completely black. No windows. Cold. Not enough to shiver, but enough to want to. Clang. Metal on wood. Calm, silent movements by the octopus. Scratch, flicker, light! A single match. Illuminated face of the octopus shows no eyeballs. Just a round pale head with a slit of a mouth. White octopi are rare. The ends of 3 tentacles surround the tip of the candle as a fourth slowly but deliberately lowers the match, as the head remains erect and rigid, staring forward with no eyes. Only the outline of a small bunch of tentacle ends is seen as the match is allowed to excite the wick. All four tentacles are calmly brought back behind the the table, taking the still lit match with it, allowing the neck to be seen for just a second. A short, thin stub of a neck. The man ponders how it can hold up the head.
Ticking of a clock. The head is illuminated from below by the candle light, such that the top fades into darkness. The flickering light makes the form of the octopus’ head appear to jiggle. The man notices the shininess of the octopus’ mucus-coated exterior. Is it getting colder in here? Blink. Clang. The candle is knocked over. A lone tentacle is visible in the light, which dims, but then comes back. Larger. The table is ignited. Crackle of a more enthusiastic fire. The flickering light illuminates more of the octopus. The whole head is visible, sill in the same erect position with the unmoving slit. All eight tentacles can be seen in the violent flickering light. They emerge directly from the neck- no body. The man ponders an anatomical explanation for the octopus’ apparent lack of vital organs.
The fire is larger. A bucket of water emerges from beneath the table, held by two tentacles. The octopus slowly, calmly, turns the bucket above the table, releasing the liquid relief. Again, the head shows no motion. Completely erect. Eyeless forward stare. The fire climbs up the stream of water, igniting the bucket. The bucket is released and the tentacles, after an ever so slight jerk of apparent fear, are slowy lowered beneath the table. A minute shiver of the head. So minute it didn’t even happen. Completely still again now. Perhaps even more still, theres determination.
The fire leaps off of the table and engulfs the man. With the last few seconds of hist life, he turns and sees a window. Was that there before? The landscape is beautiful. A forever stretching flatland of dry dirt, fading into fog, with a sole tree off in the distance. A tear hits the floor as the last breath is released.
The octopus’s head nods forward some, and the slit relaxes into a hole as an enormous sigh is released. The top of the head sags forward, making a slight crease just above where the eyes might have been if they existed. The octopus remains at the table as the fire slowly burns out and the same initial silence is again achieved, only this time louder. Another sigh is released as the octpus slouches up to a “standing” position and moves away from the table, away from the carcass. The lowered head bobs up and down as the tentacles drag along the floor . A tentacle wraps around the handle. The door is opened. Light floods the room. The door handle reflects the light. The octopus’ mucus-covered exterior reflects the light. The walls are mirrors. The words are mirrors.

ANALYSIS
it’s important to note that this was done after writing the story. Some of these ideas emerged during writing, some during revision, few possibly subconsciously before writing.

mirrors
climax of story and overall message:
you just read all that story
i wrote it
but i didn’t TELL you anything
i didn’t make you BELIEVE anything
you just found interpretations inside yourself
almost demotes the entire story
THESIS: our class discussions have shown that in some modernist writing, we are forced to reflect on ourselves and find our own values, rather being spoonfed ideas by the author
ie: imposition of our own values onto interpretations of Prufrock

possible subconscious reasons for other elements:

initial cold
idea of finding purpose (prufrock, wasteland)

the narrator occasionally uses the man’s “voice”

octopus
very concerned with how the man sees him
cannot show weakness
straining to keep head erect and mouth in slit shape
eyes
show too many emotions
lack of eyes and candle is like kurtz’s painting in heart of darkness
represents imperialism (heart of darkness)
apparent good intentions (candle)
vast, destructive, expansion of ideas (burning table)
lack of sympathy for people (man)
presents self as superior, strong (erect head)
thin neck, big head
all bark, no bite
no body- no emotions, no sympathy, no heart

man
onlooker, uninvolved (prufrock, araby, heart of darkness)
killed before much is known about him
shows artist’s lack of sympathy for audience (killing roach in metamorphosis)
shows violence and uncaring of octopus

stream of consciousness