The following is a short story written by Blacksheep at the PAF, I thought I would see about showing it to more people. You can find his original post here.
"A few weeks ago I was bored and feeling creative. So I
hashed together some stuff from old poems and weird feelings and
opinions I possess. It's nowhere near finished, and it's definitely not
fluid, so feel free to nail me to the cross if you feel confused. This
is not a day-by-day story, by the way. Enjoy, and don't be afraid to criticize. You won't hurt my feelings.
'They Call Me Crazy', The Journal of an American Detainee
short, tan man in dirty coveralls fiddled with a ring of keys outside
of a small quonset hut. After a moment of struggling with the lock he
managed to open the door. Once inside, he secured it and set a piece of
rebar across two brackets on either side of the wall beyond the
He knelt by a desk and turned on a portable radio and
turned up the volume; the signal was not very clear, but it played the
classic rock he appreciated. He hummed along to Buffalo Springfield's
For What It's Worth and sat indian - style, taking a Zippo and a Lucky
Strike cigarette from his breast pocket. He put it to his lips, ignited
the coffin nail, and after replacing the lighter felt around on the
floor of his cramped quarters for a spell.
With his fingertips
he tugged at a floorboard. It was jarred from its place after a few
seconds of jostling that had obviously been perfected after years of
practice. The board was carefully lifted and placed aside to reveal a
hole nearly a foot deep and two feet across. From it he took a wooden
stationery kit and a battered ammunition can. The kit was placed on the
desk above and the ammo can beneath it.
He opened it and removed a
small book wrapped in plastic along with a pen. The book was unwrapped
and placed alongside the box. The point was pressed to the first page.
15 April 2030
name is Stanley Shawe Kelly. I was born in San Jose, California on
April 15th of 2002. Today is my birthday. I am twenty eight years old
and live in Energy Camp 'Great Basin' outside of Ely, Nevada where I am a
custodian at a school. I am known as citizen 332-13-8936 (F).
My wife and three children are with Jesus. I miss them every day.
We are called bigots because we protest executive overreach.
We are called traitors because we question authority of the corrupt.
We are the enemy and the enslaved.
2022 President Lee Chavez was elected under a Democrat - Republican
unity ticket formed as a coalition against the growing threat of a
movement known only as the 'Liberals'. This political movement was
outlawed and put on the federal terror watchlist shortly after the
election after a nationwide investigation of members resulted in seizure
of goods and arrests for purported domestic terror activities. These
activies included, but were not limited to firearm ownership, stocks of a
week's worth of food or more, and 'radical' reading material.
make this possible, a committee headed by the Department of Justice and
the Chavez Administration initiated an executive order called the
'Police Actions and Powers Act', or 'PAPA' for short.
every police agency in the United States under the direct authority of
the Department of Justice, which as a body of the executive branch could
provide the administration with unlimited ability to exercise its will
in the name of collective safety and security.
They took me away
from my wife and children after I was laid off and could no longer
support them. All of our tax dollars went to the undocumented folks
anyways. I got placed in Great Basin and was given a job through the
camp's lottery system as a janitor. Guess it didn't matter that I'd
spent a few years doing IT work beforehand. That's just how it works -
piss poor idea.
I do not know where my family is but I get a letter every month saying they are 'okay'. I fear only the worst.
Stanley turned to the last page of the journal. He had read what was written here before nearly every day.
One day you can write about your adventures in this book, and you can tell me about all of them.
I love you, buddy. Happy birthday.
the message was an old polaroid of a him as a child with his mother and
father along with a two dollar bill. He closed the journal and put both
hands to it. With a long, pained exhale, he carefully covered it in its
plastic wrapping and placed it in his breast pocket. The stationery kit
was left in its place and the ammunition can was brought up to his lap.
He pulled on the lid of the container and produced a parcel in a
manila envelope. The envelope was opened and he placed the object
wrapped in an oily rag on the table gently to avoid making too much
The rag was carefully unwrapped to reveal a revolver; a
British Webley Mk. VI that his great grandfather had brought back from
the War as a gift to his son - Stanley's father."