by The Poet
I was awoken when they told me I’m next in line. Next for what?, I pondered, as I donned the orange outfit they newly gave me as of yesterday. Once ready to leave, two men arrived at the threshold of my doorway and escorted me to a dark room with a man behind a camera. “Name?”, the photographer asked in a hoarse voice, “Arthur Masters”, replied one of the men in a hushed tone. “So you’re the new guy, eh?”, chuckled cynically the photographer. Almost simultaneously, I replied that I was indeed the new guy to this facility of members in orange outfits. “Are we ready to proceed with the photographs?”, nervously asked the other man. I sensed a degree of fear – genuine terror in his words; I emphasized by trying to smile at him. My mother always told me I’m a photogenic person. In attempt to smile at the tensed, he looked away as soon as I tried to take a glance at his face. Nevertheless, I did catch the looks of the other man. He, on the other hand, was a more physically built man and appeared to possess a high level of confidence. He winked at me and, as if he read my mind, told the photographer to set up his camera for me. The photographer beckoned me to come forward. He then pointed to pose in front of a wall, and told me not to smile. I was disappointed when the police man of this worrisome demeanour told me smiles aren’t permitted in mugshots.