{Part 2} Untitled Short Story

I'm guessing you mean this sentence, "She hoped it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience for me to wait for them to return?" I was undecided whether or not to use a question mark for that kind of imbedded dialogue. So, I think I'll change it to a period. ^_^ Thanks.

Well, here goes part two. I think the story as a whole turned out decently for being thought of and written in twenty-four hours. Though I secretely wish my sister had written it, because then it would have turned out much better.

p.s. In all the story is nearly four full pages with regular margins in a word doc.
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One day after Mrs. Clemine was replaced, the whole school had half the day off so our teachers could attend a Mental Health and Positive Attitude seminar. But I wasn’t out and about rejoicing in my temporary freedom like most of the kids. Instead, I sat at home in my tiny little room, in the tiny little apartment Mom had worked so hard to provide for the two of us. Homework could not hold my attention, so I slipped into the kitchen looking for something to eat. Mom had made stroganoff for lunch, but it sounded distasteful to me just then. Even though I knew she wouldn’t be home until dinnertime, I opted for a muffin instead.

“I hate muffins,” I said aloud. Surely, any adult would criticize me for practicing telling lies when it is so important to ones future to practice telling the truth. Of course, they had not done what I had done. I had the strangest feeling I could risk it, even though I didn’t want to. Perhaps it was simply the possibility that I could—and get away with it—that made me crave it. Me and the muffin made our way to the couch and I sat down, untouched muffin in hand. The majority of the student body secretly held to the belief that our teachers wanted us out of school today so we could witness the possible passing of a bill that would affect every one of our lives. While I didn’t want to be part of the System, no one knew how much the Supreme Court’s decision really would affect me if it passed.

I still felt slightly euphoric with what I had said moments before. As much as this troubled me I felt myself losing grasp of the grievance. There was no reason why I should act this way, but I felt myself invariably drawn to. This way I could get back at the people who value honesty so much they no longer trust my truthfulness. After all, I’ve done exactly what everyone wants so far: I haven’t been sent to the Principal’s office, gotten detention, or any other sort of demerits. Why have they no reason to believe my words?

That’s exactly what I thought earlier in the day. In preparation for future work we had all been associated with the Registers. The technology has been upgraded numerous times, and each time the machine has come out small and cleaner until it reached the school standard size which vaguely resembled a tissue box. Our teacher instructed us on how to hook up the machine and then told us to either say something true or contradictory, and then view the reading. A group of my friends all decided we would say something contradictory and aim for a certain emotion on the monitor.

My turn came and I said something contradictory to how I felt, looking for the red light and reading. Instead, it showed the same line it had present when I wasn’t saying anything: eerily similar to a heartbeat of a man in great distress. The presiding teacher began swiftly disconnecting me from the Register and said detachedly, “That’s interesting, I never knew that about you,” then immediately began instructing the next kid. I started to say perhaps I wasn’t hooked up right, or “Sir, something is wrong with your expensive machine,” but instead I walked over to my friends feeling a strange mixture fear and exhilaration.
“Hey, what’s up? Why didn’t you show red like we said we were gonna? Chickened out, huh?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled.

On the way home I tried to clear my head, but it didn’t work. I was in the same state when I arrived home. My chest was constricting, and a single thought kept pounding through my head again and again. “But it wasn’t true . . . it wasn’t, why didn’t someone tell me I was wrong?” Bitterness, my dear friend, began to take hold of me. Bitterness as strong as the kind which ravaged me whenever I thought of my father and how he left; when any memory or thing reminded me of him. I clenched my jaw and distracted myself from crying by walking back into the kitchen for a napkin. I still hadn’t touched the muffin.

“I hate you,” I whispered under my breath. “Darn you, psychiatrists and busybodies. You never knew what I felt!” I was talking out loud now. “Were you so pre-occupied when you asked how I felt about my dad leaving? Or was I so good at acting, or did you care so little that you believed what wasn’t true?” Fiery, angry tears fell now. “It wasn’t true . . . and as long as you tell me I’m right that’s what I’ll be, and you’ll never have to know.”

I won’t,” I took a breath, put on a serene composure and continued, “ever make that mistake again. Because you will only ever here what you want to hear.” I flicked on the television and stared blankly at the news headline declaring the Supreme Court’s daring decision necessitating the use of personal Registers. “I hate you,” I said, still gazing, and took a bite of the muffin.

~

By now the doctors should be back. However, either something has delayed them they find it amusing to shirk their duties. I have quite recovered from my emotional outburst nearly two weeks ago, and I’ve learned a lot since then. A lot about what I am. To some extent the Movement seems to be working. Society is weeding out the “bad” from the “good” with all these laws. Be sure your sin will find you out—they are. I have realized this, and I don’t want to get in trouble with the Movement. I want to remain out of their files—a free mind. This has become impossible, since everyone is on file; I merely want to stay in the Approved section. And so far so good. I am learning to control every aspect of my composure, and when they get what they want to hear, they will never know how false it is. Because their own creation will blind them.

I have my reasons for this: I want my freedom. The freedom to make mistakes . . . This is my reason and everyone has one for either opposing or supporting the Movement. Small, fragile families with toddlers pushed for Registers among banking officials to protect their budding investments. Filthy, old misers pushed for their use among the agriculture industry and the volunteers in their community to ensure their free food was nutritious and un-poisoned. Animal Rights advocates made sure they were found in pet stores for the use of both customer and supplier.

Yet, among all the apparent improvement, selfish motives pushed the use of this technology supposed to force out the good in people. Perhaps they were all afraid, and believed if others behaved more purely, than it would be easier for themselves. Despite their efforts to “create a better society,” they have only created an environment which holds evil intentions for me.

Stirred from my internal reverie, momentarily, I saw that the doctors had returned and the nurse had called my number. White paper covered the check-up table where they beckoned me sit. “This will only take a minute,” the doctor said, taking my personal Register from my hand. “Are you right or left handed? “Right,” I responded. Stealthily, the nurse gave me a shot for the pain as the doctor began installing my death sentence. I couldn’t help but wish she had forgotten . . . and let me feel the pain—however miniscule it would be with all their high-tech equipment. Let me feel it, because I know I will cause more pain to people than these few minutes could ever cause me. I heard the doctor say, “All done, now that was painless, huh?” and I looked up at him for the first time. He resembled my father. How fitting.

I slipped down from the table, feeling chilled. But warmth would do me no good; the cold is inside me. We heat our homes in the winter to keep from getting cold, thus breaking down our immune systems. And in doing so we create an environment where pathogenic bacteria can flourish. Within our rush to exclude it, we create a home for our evils.

The nurse outside offered me a glass of water and a muffin. I took the water and said, “No thank you, I hate muffins.” She smiled politely, and retreated. I went on my way, the Register still continuing its deathly dance.

Dear Encyclopedia

Dear Encyclopedia,
I am writing you to say
I have a few corrections for your
Entry on my name
To save you from a lawyers suit
Kindly tell the truth {Yes, kindly tell the truth}
I’ll try to be objective, so
Forgive me if I fail

A lover’s triangle cannot exist
If never love did
I know you go for drama and flair
Thus, I am sorry to disappoint
But I won’t be placed where
My heart is at the breaking point

Please leave your suspicions at the typewriter
Take your ink-stained fingers and leave your mark
Where there is an impressionable heart
On the record, mine is encased
In glass that’s double-paned

Second, I’m quite offended by the
Paragraph in section two
That says I fought for something
I most assuredly never tried to
I’m content to command that you
Take your matchmakers elsewhere
Or light a match and burn this page
I won’t stand by and read about my life
And find myself surprised at what’s inside

Dear Encyclopedia,
I am writing you to say
I will not take revenge
But will you kindly clear my name
{Yes, kindly clear my name}

Untitled Short Story {Part 1}

Well. For some reason I got this interesting idea in my head last night. Hopefully, the end result is interesting. I've never written fiction just for fun, but here goes. It's actually kind of Science Fiction--NO, that does not mean I have aliens and strange planets--just it's set when things are a bit different in the world. Also, I haven't finished it yet. This is a page and a half. I've written two pages, and I expect it shouldn't be much longer than three pages in all. I've read through it once and edited it a bit, but I made need to change/add more depending on what I write later. Also, please let me know of any contradictions--I already found one. ;]

*Insert Interesting Title Here*

The receptionist looked up. “Number 1-8-8-2.” I stepped forward, crossing the yellow waiting line almost completely obscured by black scuffmarks. Her phone was ringing, but she ignored it. “Here you go. Take this and this, and move onto the room marked ‘Fitting,’” she said, handing me a small, disheveled stack of papers and the Thing I had only seen on television up to now. It fit neatly in the palm of my hand. They were right; it was virtually weightless. And icy cold. I followed her direction and headed toward the room.

~

Honestly, I don’t remember precisely when I came to the realization—it just occurred to me once that I understood, and that I didn’t want to be part of the System, whether it is beneficial or not. What emotion or reasoning drove that desire, I do not know. Which side was I on, I could not say—for or against?

People say they love what is happening, but at the same time people worry so much nowadays—what with all those children’s courts where teachers are sued for attempting to repress Expression. It was just two weeks ago my rich classmate took our English teacher to court for incorrectly Registering. Mrs. Clemine told him it was an “Excellent answer.” However, she had been thinking, “And I’ll bet you cheated on that, too. You lousy excuse for an eighth grader.” We have a new teacher now because she lost her job as well as her ability to work without a Register, or even outside the System.

But that doesn’t mean much . . . at least according to what I’ve been hearing on the news, and they can’t lie. You can’t actually see their Registers, but off-camera every broadcast is monitored. Still, I wonder. If they report something that someone else researched for them, and they don’t know it is wrong, then it’s right isn’t it? According the their standards it is, because they broadcast it in all honesty. They would be honestly mistaken. But back to what they have been reporting. They have been reporting that slowly and surely occupations are joining the System. Polls are showing that the general population prefers businesses that “value honesty.” Riots and strikes are also on the new now, though, and in alarming frequency.

~

I’d been waiting a good ten minutes outside the door the pre-occupied receptionist had mentioned, when another out of breath receptionist decided to tell me—and the restless line forming behind me—that there had been a mistake. Evidently, they managed to miss the phone call letting them know the doctors were on lunch break. She hoped it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience for me to wait for them to return? I told her I would wait the remaining fifteen minutes or so. Behind me a middle-aged man swore. Only minutes before he had been complaining, in loud tones, to a nervous young man several people behind himself. “Sure, they’re doing this for our benefit. It benefits everyone when I’m late for work and the costumers pile up. It will benefit everyone when I’m uncomfortable and can’t keep focus because of this,” he suppressed obscenities, “idiotic little contraption.” The young man just made an attempt at nodding understandingly, unsure if that was the correct response, but it didn’t matter. Mr. Grumpy had been interrupted by the receptionist and had already found another ear to complain to, this time about the Anti-Hate and Slander phone surveillance policy. As head of the local Women’s Bowling League, the Ear was sympathetic. “It tried again and again, I did, to explain to the surveillance man on duty that it wasn’t gossip. I had no intention of persuading Louise to drop her partner, really. And then he threatened to turn me in to some society or other. I think he’s just a bigot.”

Although the group of people here with me today have been called in by their address, I thankfully don’t recognize any of these bothersome people. That may be the only upside to living in a crowded apartment. Close proximity tends to breed a desire for anonymity, so I only know a few of our neighbors, only one of them being a fellow eighth grader.

Try as I might, I couldn’t seem to focus on the information packet I had been handled, and the absence of a staple made it difficult to leaf through. So, I turned my attention to the little Thing in my hand. Which, somehow, had managed to sweat profusely, though the silver surface seemed to absorb heat. Dull and charcoal colored, the blank screen stared back at me. I wondered what it would look like when activated. Still, I knew it wouldn’t make a difference. It would never show red for me.

One Thing {First Draft Song Version}

I'm thinking a piano-based, very open and uncluttered layout. Then at some point it will get more intense, but not too much, just a bit.



There’s one thing I’ve never told anyone
Sometimes I forget myself
And whether I’m protecting myself
Or someone else
You’ll never know
It’s the one thing I’ll never tell

It’s keeps house in the back of my mind
Don’t you think it’s coming to the door this time
I must apologize –an impersonal confession
I’m holding back, growing bark around the entrance
If time could only erase
These things I never will say

Oh, ho ho
When people ask “Can you truly keep a secret?”
There’s only trust
Because I can’t show
The one thing I’ve been safely keeping
{Faithfully, believe me;
It takes a toll and its secrecy
Leaves people with a view of me
No better—
Though, faithfully I bear}

The one thing I’ve never told anyone
Sometimes I forget myself
And whether I’m protecting myself
Or someone else
You’ll never know
It’s the one thing I’ll never tell

Perhaps Part of "My Heart Can't Beat Fast Enough"

Leave me alone
Let me do this on my own/by myself
Or else I won't be strong enough
To do this when you're gone

{Because baby} One can do one thing/something
But none can do everything
And if you try
You're going to hurt me
Oh, you're going to hurt me
Look how you hurt me

Don't pick me up
Don't place me down
Don't say that I am yours to carry

Cinnamon

Of course, it’s a beautiful day
Outside
But one is inside and feeling
Discontented.
Because something has reminded a human of
Something
Which is true, but takes away the joy found
In the little things of life
Hobbies.
And no, I don’t mean the
Fact that one day, somehow
One’s going to die.
Why is that so terrible, again?
But what I mean is that
You remember you aren’t
Exceptional; at all
In something you enjoy quite a bit
And thought perhaps you might be good at
It doesn’t matter
What it is.
Harmless, little things pop up and
Say, “Oh, yes. You’re not exceptional.”
Not noticeably “better” or “worse”
Somewhere in the grey.
Never is it one of those
Knife-in-the-heart
Pains, nothing dramatic and wounding like that
Instead, it’s like cinnamon’s
Bitter taste where you had expected sugar.
One frowns, steps back.
It robs one of an appetite—
Any desire to finish or remake the
Meal properly.
Just forget it
The lack of motivation or extreme feeling
Or extreme anything—
That is the worst of it:
It’s just
Bitter indifference