Two Fortnights

In the Brig. Solitary. Not even ratts. A damp anechoic chamber. Hard tack and water. The crime? Benedict's. Like I like my eggs. Not like the aardvark. Especially when spelled correctly. The longest in a half decade in town. In so many ways. And the chalk on the walls and the beard on your face and the mold in your shoes and fact that you've seen no light, heard no voice, felt no warmth, ate no fill, smelled nothing but fear... all point to one thing. Time to escape. And again. And again. Until there is not dirt in the whole of England to fill the holes you've dug with your favorite lucky spoon.