Young Writers Society

I'm trapped, bound by a straitjacket that confines me wherever I dare to venture. My legs are free to walk the earth but my hands are restricted to my back, too much freedom will not suffice. Every day I'm wrapped up in commands, forced to sit with a pattern containing invisible rules that must be followed - what is creativity? I would not know.

I stagger down the stairs toward the exit of my shelter, a heavy bag of pointless subjects almost makes me trip. But the program wants me out, the program controls my moves just like a pawn on a chess board - sacrificial and a worthless face. It's just a game to those in charge. My hands are released from the straitjacket for that one precious second, but I'm not quick nor strong enough to resist the program that guides my fingers toward the handle. Shaking, it grips the cool handle that pricks at my skin, and easily, it turns to show me the blinding light that bombards me from the outside. 

Back in the confines of wrapped up arms, the program's powerful hand pushes me forward and I stumble into the 'bustling' town that lies before me. I join them, and we walk toward the set locations of our weekdays. Each person's face is covered by a mask as no one dares to reveal their story. We are all walking stories clouded by fake ones formatted by a world that sucks up happy endings. We walk along the given path, in fear of punishment if we dare write our own.

Closer, I near the tall building that is wrapped in false security - it's time to learn some more lies. But as I step within the gates, a strange orb wrapped in blue glints from beside the school of black and white. Enticed by it's ambiguity, I step off the track and wander toward it, my straightjacket loosening with every step. Once I'm confronted by its brilliant glow, an ocean blue orb floats toward me capturing my eyes in a trance as the straight jacket drops from my body. I reach out and I touch it. Everything goes white for a second as a blast of wind smacks the mask off of my face. 

The white settles and I'm surrounded by colour. The sky lies light blue and the grass drifts with green. I spin to look down at the mask that sits beside me and I find myself bending to pick it up. The smile stretched across it curls at me menacingly from within my hands; I snap the mask in two with frustration and toss it aside as I run toward the dumbfounded students that stand outside the school. 

There's no straitjackets, there's no masks. Just genuine smiles from genuine stories. I'd heard about the blue orb. . . It was told as a myth of our freedom, a gateway to a new age. Some say that it holds a person, one that embraces you upon contact. Some say it's a trick formed to make us feel 'love'.

But what if it is neither? What if it's just there to act as a notice to all?

"Your story is yours, look for the good parts."