by Vrisan Shah, 13
This excerpt is the opening to Vrisan Shah’s novel, The Prisoner, which follows a blind man who has been falsely imprisoned and no longer remembers his past. After this excerpt he goes on an adventure to find the truth of why he was imprisoned. Along the way, he flashes back to what happened to him so long ago.
The Prisoner
I do not know why they keep me here. I have only jagged recollections of the past, blurry, moving images that I cannot give meaning to. The only memories that remain are faint, wispy recollections of a delicate pond as soft as butter and as pure as bliss. The warden calls me the Prisoner.
I can only see darkness. My eyes, they say, are too damaged to work anymore. I am trapped in a desolate abyss where all I can hear are my desperate cries.
I make sense of this world through sound and smell. Everything is important. The ticking of the clock. The clanging of metal. The stench of my cell. My thoughts are my only solitude. With each rank, stale breath, I long to rest in dancing grass, to plunge into cool waters, to hear birds chirp …
I long to be free.
I heard the lock clicking open in my cell yesterday. The putrid musk of sweat filled the air as someone entered my cell. I heard the cell door shut and a thump as someone sat down. A cellmate?
“Are you blind, old man? Why they have you locked up? Them people always messin’. Name’s Mike. I killed a man ‘cause he stole my wallet,” Mike said in a raspy voice.
I turned away from the sound of the voice, shuddering. Is that why the warden had sent Mike? To end my misery?
“Rest assured, old man. I ain’t gonna kill you. I’ve been to this big house, this ole slammer, six times now. They just can’t get enough of me, it seems. What you in for, Grandpa?” Mike said, whistling.
“I do not know. I’ve been here for far too long. Please, I beg of you, don’t hurt me. I still have one thing left to do,” I said, frailly.
“Grandpa! You think I’d kill ya? But, what’s the one thing you wanna do?” Mike inquired. “Oh, and I didn’t get your name.”
“My name is …” I started, and then stopped.
“You’ve been here so long that ya forgot ya own name, old man? Dang. Well, I’m just gonna call you Grandpa. I never had a grandpa, nor parents, but we can be each other’s family,” Mike said, chuckling.
3 MONTHS LATER
I had become close with Mike. We bonded over a shared love of music. It was the only thing I truly cherished, and it kept Mike sane. Every day, Mike carved through the wall with a pocketknife that he snuck in. I kept watch. Well, I couldn’t watch. I would sing, as loud as my hoarse voice could do. Mike always joined me, and our voices blended together, covering the sound of the knife. We just prayed no one came to check on the killer and the old blind man.
“I asked for this cell ‘cause the wall here ain’t strong. Ben, my best bud, has a friend on the inside who arranged that. Ben is gonna bust me out of here soon. I’m ditching this place. You wanna come, old man? I’m sure you can finish whatever job you got. Just run fast. And don’t look … whoops. You coming, Grandpa? We leave in four days,” Mike said, putting a hand on my shoulder.
I gulped. This could be it. I could finally do what I always wanted to do. I nodded silently.
The four days dragged on until finally, it was the day where we would break free. I heard Mike slowly peel off the poster to reveal the tunnel he had carved. It connected to an air duct, which would take us right to Ben, right to freedom.
We crawled inside the damp tunnel, and I could feel walls closing in on me, thoughts of suffocation clouding my mind.
“Old man, I promise I’ll get ya out. You can count on that, Grandpa,” Mike said suddenly, his words having a sense of finality and resolve.
Suddenly, sirens erupted in the air, and I heard the pounding of shoes on the rough prison floor. The guards!
“Run, Grandpa! Make your dream come true!” Mike yelled as he pushed me to the tunnel’s end. A hand smelling faintly of mint clutched mine and pulled me out. I hoped it was Ben. At last I felt the heat of the sun on my face but my short-lived peace was interrupted by gunshots and one last, fatal cry. “I love you, Grandpa!”
I cried out in sorrow, but my anguish was stifled as I was pushed onto a padded seat. Doors slammed shut and music began to blast through my ears, drowning out my pained gasps and the roar of the car engine. The car sped away, far from the pain of the prison, as a tear slipped out of my eye.
Mike died that day. Ben told me the grave news. He took me in, and he cared for me. Every day, we visited a pond where I felt sunlight shining on my face, wind blowing through my air, and nature beckoning me. I knew I couldn’t let Mike’s sacrifice go in vain. I was going to find out the truth.
Houston, Texas
This piece won SECOND PLACE in our 2026 Voice & Verse Writing Contest, prose ages 12-14 category.
Judge’s Note: This story is amazing! It is unique conceptually, the imagery and pacing are amazing. I was on my toes the whole time, unsure but excited to have more information revealed.
Bridge Ink 