Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Another Day

Yeah, I know this is a little different, so feel free to shoot, disown, burn, make faces at, or get into a theological discussion on Youtube with me about it. I just like writing fiction-y things more than meh-boring-maybe-kinda-stretching-the-truth-non-fictiony things. So here it is. If you want more fiction-y things in the future, tell me. Yep, all seven of you who still read this. Oh, sorry person who got lost on Google and wound up here after searching through treacherous swamps of the six or seventh page of your daycare Google search (you'll see why you're here in a minute), you too.

You see that aesthetically-pleasing thing on the bottom that says 'comments'? That, maybe to your surprise, is not there just to sit and look aesthetically pleasing. Use it, if you want. That's what it's there for. Though do be sure you take a moment and appreciate the aesthetically pleasing element of it. Though I've been practicing my telepathy, I won't be able to know what you think unless you tell me. So tell me if you like this, If it's the best thing you've ever read, or if you want more. Heh. No, Seriously. Tell me if you like it, if you didn't, if it was terrible, if you're never speaking to me again, or if you want more of this (or maybe something more serious) fiction-y stuff.  Because I won't know unless you tell me. Ah, logic.

Maybe I should stop rambling now. So here's my story:

I look out the dirty windows. The sun is trying so hard to break through the barrier of the dark clouds, but is failing. My captors discuss in hushed tones, above my head, whether we should be taken outside into the bleak mid-winter day. I pray they won't send us out into the harsh wind.

Surreptitiously, I glance over at them. They notice my glare and tell me to finish eating my food. Hah, food. I wonder how long it's been sitting on that shelf, so high above my head. My fellow prisoners are also forced to eat the dry, tasteless meal. Some appear to enjoy it. I feel pity for them, for they've obviously lost all sense of taste after eating...whatever this is for so long.

Suddenly, one of our tall, stern captors stands up and barks at us to finish eating, we were being taken outside. I curse inwardly. My worn jacket is too thin, the wind will cut through it easily.

We are marched, single file, towards the glass door. One of my captors stands in front, leading the march towards the cold, another stands behind, making sure there are no stragglers. I again am frustrated. There's no chance for an escape, no way I could make it out of here. I adjust the twisted identification tag pinned to the back of my jacket, straightening it out.

After I'm pushed through the door, I walk alongside the fence. the ground is covered with sharp splinters of wood, getting stuck to my socks and into my shoes. I look up at the metal contraptions my fellow captives are climbing over. The metal structures are tall, far taller than I will ever be. They loom condescendingly over me, their gaudy colors slightly faded in the bleak grey light.

I sigh and run my hand along the towering fence. Soon, I'll be out of here. The trees on the other side whisper to me a dozen ways of escape, but I will wait. I smile. I'll bide my time. And eventually, I will be free.

A bell rings somewhere. I look up. This is what I am waiting for. As they count and file us back inside, I look back at the yard. Good riddance, I think, although I know I will be back here tomorrow, the day after, and the day after that, the end nowhere in sight.

This has been another day at preschool.


(and this may or may not be a slight parody to A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich depending on the copyright laws and whatnot. Hey, I've got to find some way to enjoy these school books.)

(oh, and that aesthetically-pleasing box down there is the comment box I was telling you about, in case you got lost. You type stuff there. I mean, relevant stuff. As much as I love editing, I don't really want to read your essay or lab report or thank-you note to your grandmother for the lovely sweater she sent you last Christmas. So don't be a smart aleck. Or annoying. Or a serial killer. Or all three.)