This was his home. You might call it his prison, but it was all he had. It seemed as if he had always been here. He would spread his fingers over the glass walls and looked out. The view was distorted of course, and above it all were the words "Ball Mason". Now it was time to leave, to see more and see it more clearly. His ceiling was heavy and almost beyond reach. The only way out, he felt, was to tip the jar.<>p>He began to quickly move from side to side, he could hear the sound of his own voice as he exerted himself. Slowly the jar moved until it tipped. It crashed to the floor and shattered. Free at last, his view was vivid and clear. But the freedom he sought was also frightening. He gathered the pieces that lay broken on the floor and made them into a heap. He lay upon the little pile of glass, sorry it was broken.
* * * * *
I wrote this for the high school newspaper when I was 17 years old. They published it in the Glendale Monitor. They were desperate for material. It may be, as they say, frought with all kinds of dire Freudian implications.