To Rebel

An old writing project for 8th grade. A bit rushed. Takes place in an alternate universe.

I was casually sitting down on my worn out couch when my roommate came back from her shopping trip.

 

"I brought you something!" she tells me as she dug through her many heavy shopping bags to bring out a white DKNY shirt. I took it without thanking her, and casted it aside for later use. She smiled rather triumphantly before walking over to the curtain covered window to let the sunshine in.

 

"Oh look! They're raising the flag at the downtown park!" I glanced over to see soldiers lifting the red and yellow starred flag, I looked away in thought.

 

"It won't be long before they reach us…" she commented, "You think we better start packing?"

 

I shook my head without facing her.

 

"Well, maybe you're right." She said before continuing, "If we try to run, they will probably catch us sooner or later." She seemed to be talking to herself instead of me. I didn't pay much attention, the Chinese government had to be better than the Russian Federation. My roommate talked more on the subject, but I did not pay her mind, as my thoughts were on the newspaper in my lap.

 

Apparently, our economy is neither getting better nor worse according to the silly little cartoons on page seven. And on the front page was the news that a nuclear power plant in one of Ukraine's territories (Where London, England, used to be) had an internal error and blew up, causing thousands of fatalities; and all the president of the company had to say was to complain about 'his legacy'. I shook my head, all we had these days were bad news. I dropped the newspaper on the coffee table, and headed towards the door for fresh air.

 

"Going out?" my roommate asked, but did not wait any sort of reply form me, "Just be back before dark, okay? There are rumors going around that our area is turning to anarchy." I 'hmm' in acknowledgment before grabbing my coat and closing the door; not bothering to lock it. I walked down the hall, passing the broken elevator and hazardous stairs to the window at the end of the corridor. Our apartment was on the fifth and highest floor, so you could see all the way to Ashby Park; where the Chinese had just taken it as their territory.

 

I swung one leg over the open window, and carefully placed it and the other one on a sturdy pipe before climbing down next to the fire escape by Floor 4. From there, I walked down the stair like escape before leaping out to a nearby tree branch on Floor 2, and dropping myself safely on the ground.

 

I dusted the dirt and splinters off my jeans, and put on my coat that was just beginning to have a new hole form in its pockets.

 

As I walked down the street that used to be known as 'Broadway', I think back to what my roommate had said about running away. It would probably not even make a difference; every week we seem to get a new government and/or dictator. While thinking, I took a look at all the murals painted on the once white walls. A particular one (my favorite) was an old propaganda painting of Fidel Castro, back when Cuba was ruling over this Area. Or at least, I think it was Fidel Castro. I'm not much of a history major, never was.

 

I heard the distant sound of marching from both my left and right. I turn around to see the Russian, Chinese, and what looked like the Latvian army push their way through the street. Not wanting to get caught up in battle, I slipped into an alleyway, and ran with all the speed I could muster up at the moment. Just as I was about to reach the end, I heard the familiar cry of gunfire, and shouts in incomprehensible language.

 

This is everyday life here in the city that, many years ago, was called 'New York'. Living in fear and hiding, supplies always running out, and having your nationality change every week or so.

 

This is my life.

 

…But what other life is there?

 

Author's Note

so one day, my 8th grade Lang. Arts teacher told us to start cutting out pictures form magazines. I chose 'Newsweek'. She told us to cut out five. Then she said to write a story about them.

I think it came out alright, because everyone else's were all nonsense and crack-filled. But theirs were funnier.