Young Writers Society

It's a slightly rainy Tuesday morning at Clarence Prep High. The date is February 3, 2088. James, having already finished his assignments for the hour, decides to take an extended bathroom break. Upon going the typical route to the bathroom, he takes a detour out of the school's back fire exit down the street from a parking structure to his favorite place in Detroit - the Colored Section. 

The Colored Section is an art piece by James' late grandfather: a tree stump replica made of wood with its rings painted in grayscale placed in the middle of a collection of used easels attached to posts arranged in eight semicircles that face outwards in all eight directions. This work of art was free for public viewing until it was shut down due to the name raising a horrible issue the government had attempted to oppress many times with its name. 

It is here that James sits and thinks as a traffic camera equipped with audio recording happens to catch his voice.

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"Sweet. The old man's paintings are still here. Heh. I wonder where he got all this from. Not just the materials, but the idea. I mean, come on. The Colored Section? What did Gramps expect from the world? That they'd just accept this the way it is?"

James turns around towards the sound of a car pulling out of the parking structure, the black gravel and grass crackling and crunching against the tires as they descend down the slight incline to the interior. 

"Sweet. I could totally rock one of those new water-based cars they got. 'Specially if they got it in red. Yeah. Red."

A small breeze kicks up. The rain intensifies a bit, but James isn't the type to carry an umbrella.

"Sheesh. Bit chilly, ain't it? Probably shoulda wore a jacket. Alas, 'tis the job of the man of various misconceptions to lie to himself about how he feels, right? After all, here I am, speaking in a dialect I adapted from an environment that oppresses originality, mimicking the thought processes and actions of people who're already lost to themselves, and making myself look like a giant hypocrite by failing to admit my own fault in not accepting myself for who I am in public."

Rain continues falling, occasionally landing hard upon the windshields of stationary cars at the stoplight. James, glancing at his lime green digital watch, decides to head back to school.

On the way, he stops at a local gas station to pick up a bag of chips and a soda from Jeanne, the store owner. This conversation is recorded via the store's security camera at the register.

"Hey, Jeanne!...OW! It's still painful to call you by your first name all the time."

"It's alright, man. Don't beat yourself up about it, eh? Now what can I get for you today...I know! How about some Milditos? You always seem to like those."

"I'm actually feeling rather downtrodden at the moment, should that have any bearing on you as, you know, a store clerk."

"Ah, mi amigo. I'll tell you right now that how you feel matters more to me now than you ever thought it could. Perhaps...eh...how's about some Gelatinous Prisms?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Oh, wait, you probably haven't heard of those new gummies they came out with recently - you know, the ones that have multi-colored 3D shapes that all taste like different fruits - you know, those things?"

"They sound familiar...ah! I know what you're talking about! Those, uh, the things that they made with those designated flavors so kids could identify shapes at a young age by association or something!"

"Uh, yeah! Those! Did you want a pack?"

"Actually, no. I've tried those before, and they're absolutely disgusting, every one of them, and I frankly can't stand that dumb mascot - what is it, a freakin', uh, skateboarding, one-eyed purple pyramid with a tinted monocle and a tophat?"

"That's alright, bro. What do ya want, then?"

"I'll just, uh...I'll have the chocolate-covered pickle crisp things right there behind you on that shelf right there. Yep, those. Thanks, man."

"Alright, any drinks?"

"I'll just take a durian soda, thanks."

"Okay, that brings your total to 2 dollars."

"Got it. Oops! Wait, I dropped it, let me- WHOA!"

James' 2 dollars falls out of his pants pocket, but just as he bends down to pick it up, a dry, cracked, almost calloused-looking hand reaches down to pick it up first and hands it to him. James takes a glance at the person holding their hand out towards him - a relatively tall girl with a yellow hoodie sporting a flame design on the hood and a pair of fresh red jeans that flood over her quite basic-looking white sneakers. She simply makes unbreakable eye contact with James before he politely accepts the money and thanks her, turning to pay for his snacks. 

                                                     ROUGHLY 15 MINUTES LATER

James arrives back at school just in time for transitions to 4th hour, stopping off at his locker to put away his food before leaving to his class.

All goes well until 4th period ends and James finds himself in quite the predicament - there are three unidentified students crowded around his locker, one of who is spinning the locking mechanism on it in hopes they can somehow crack it.

"Hey! What are you doing?!. I thought I told you before to stay away from my locker!"

"Oh, look. It's the big man himself! Big fella, you ain't expect to show up to this school packin' snacks like you got without havin' to share, now did ya?"

"Brendan, I haven't the slightest amount of time for you, your circa-1990s-to-early 2000s-level jock squad, or your foolish antics. You'll either leave my locker now, or-"

"Or what, big fella? You gon' go cry to Mrs. Botsky again? "Oh boo hoo hoo, Mrs. Botsky! Mrs. Botsky! They bein' mean ta me! Wah, wah, WAH!" 

"Your sense of humor borders on that of a mentally disabled kindergartner trying to make a comeback after being told his hair was crappy."

"Oh, yeah? And where are your big ol' words getting ya? I've stole yo shit roughly ten times now, and Mrs.Bitchsky ain't done a damn thing about it!"

"More than pretty much anything else. Look, man. You know I can cook the mess out of you on a routine basis. I'm pretty sure no matter how many times you step to me thinking you can say whatever and get away with it because of your fake little posse of brain-damaged muscleheads marked for early graves at the hands of heart attacks, you'll always end up right where you'll be if you keep trying me - flat on your behind."

"Reaaaalllllyyy? Reeeaaallly. Look at big fella, all grown up! He finally finna square up with the boys! Ain't that just fine and dandy! Tell you what, big fella, I don't need yo' stank ass chips anyway, but I got yo ass after school in the front. Be there 3:30 sharp, or I'm seriously beating the brakes offa you when I find you. Got it?"

"Yeah, whatever. Just back the hell away from my locker, Brendan. I'd hate to have some poor soul tread by here and call the cops thinking I stored a body somewhere around here." 

"After. School. You. Me."

Brendan and his crowd departs from the locker, Brendan forcefully pushing James with his shoulders as they cross paths. James plasters his hand to his face at the stupidity of the whole situation, moreso at his immature use of profanity in response to them. He contemplates grabbing his food, but decides against it, instead just slamming his locker and proceeding to lunch.

"I really wish I hadn't threatened him like that. As much as he deserves a fully-customized knuckle sandwich jammed down his throat, I'm not on for fighting. Whatever. At least it's a 1v1 in front of the student body. I'm sure anyone with even half a brain will see just how dumb being a TV thug can truly be when I leave him incapacitated on the ground outside. And let him call his boys on me! I'll take 'em! I'll take all of 'em!...

...There you go...lying to yourself again. My heart rate won't go down. I'm sweating. My hands are shaking, and I can't breathe any slower. Let's just pray the administration looks the other way on this one. I'm really not prepared for this. And, as a matter of fact, who am I calling a TV thug? I literally just fed off of the moment's feelings and put my reputation at risk for irreversibility! Whatever. I have no one to disappoint but myself and the admins, the latter of which I couldn't care less for. 3 hours until D-Day."