Sunday, June 24, 2012

They Call me Crazy short story by the Blacksheep

 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

A 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 threshhold.

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

My 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.

In 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.

To 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.

PAPA put 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.


Below 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 noise.

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."

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