I'm the Terrorist

What would happen if your life's passion was suddenly outlawed by an oppressive government?

I’M THE TERRORIST

    
    I sighed heavily as I watched the evening news that highlighted the newest bills that were passed into laws, effective immediately.  One in particular caught my eye.  It wasn’t entirely unexpected, but came as a mixture of shock and disappointment just the same.  I had been writing since I was twelve, and even had some of my work published in local magazines.  I was just about to finish my first novel and was set to begin the arduous task of shopping for a publisher and a literary agent.  But now that they had made any and all creative writing illegal, I hardly saw the point in it any more.
    There was no massive civil unrest at the announcement, not like when they had made it mandatory to have a permit to have sex.  That was the closest thing to an honest-to-God riot that there had been in over thirty years.  In every city, people came out into the streets, protesting at the top of their lungs, carrying large signs, and challenging anyone that they perceived as an authority figure.
    Since I was a single male, living by myself and slightly obese, I hadn’t been too bothered by the proclamation.  It wasn’t like I was going to be having sex anytime soon anyway.  So instead, I sat home with a bowl of popcorn and a large soda, while I revised a short story that I was working on and watched the chaos unfold on the television.  Things were certainly getting interesting.  It was beginning to look like the powers that be would finally have to see the foolishness of their ways and retract at least this one decision.  Then he came on the screen, our illustrious leader, probably elected for life since voting was restricted to a precious few nowadays.
    With a voice that was as smooth as silk, he did the unthinkable.  He applauded the American people for standing up for what they believed in, because the last thing he wanted to do was to make anyone feel oppressed or like their opinion didn’t matter.  I nearly choked on my drink when he said those words.
    He then went on to suggest, ever so slightly, that perhaps not everyone had seen the full reasoning behind the sex permit law.  It would drastically decrease, if not eliminate, many sexually transmitted diseases.  Unwanted pregnancies would be a thing of the past, and population control could finally be established, to conserve the rapidly dwindling resources of our only planet.  
    By the time he was through, the mobs in the street had dissipated, the signs lay forgotten on the ground, and the same men and women who had vocalized their resentment towards our government with such gusto, now praised their initiative and commitment towards our well being.  It would have been comical, if it wasn’t so sad.  Halfway through, I turned off the television and went back to my writing.  In my stories I had as much freedom as I wanted to do anything that I wished.  It was a power that not even our President could claim at the moment, although he was certainly working hard to attain it.
    But with a few simple signatures, this new law made it illegal for me to touch pen to paper, thus stripping me of the power that my imagination had wielded with such a passion.  Their reasoning?  There had been a massive influx of pieces of independent literature that some found offensive.  And God knows we don’t want anyone to be offended.  That was why there were only stale documentaries and heavily censored news broadcasts on television now.  Everything else violated someone else’s civil rights or liberties in one way or another.  They made it impossible for any of our rights to be violated, by holding them carefully in a heavily monitored grip.
    I didn’t watch much T.V. anyway, so once again, I chalked it up to one more government decision that didn’t affect me.  But this new ban on creative writing, that affected me.  That affected me hard.
    I sat at my desk and thought about my options for a long time.  Probably longer than was needed considering I didn’t have many to being with.  Questions kept coming to mind that had answers that I didn’t like.  What would be left for me if I gave up my only passion?  It’s not like I have an illustrious career to attend to.  I’m just a waiter at a local restaurant.  What would my father and grandfather think of me if I just rolled over and played dead?  Both of them had fought in the last two world wars, to preserve the liberties that were being slowly stripped from us before our very eyes.  And the most worrisome question of all, what would be next?  My decision was made.
    I spent the next few hours packing, loading up my small car with various provisions that I had stocked up on, for just this moment.  Then I went down to the basement and got the only thing that my Grandfather had left me.  It was a 12 gauge Smith and Wesson pump action shotgun.  I felt a small thrill when I picked it up.  I knew that if word got back to the secret police about it, that I would spend the next five years in a prison, probably somewhere up in Alaska.  Hell, the way things were going, I would probably end up there anyway, hopefully later rather sooner.
    The firearm had been well taken care of and I was pleased to see how effortlessly the shells could be racked into the chamber and ejected just as easily.  I retrieved the full box of ammunition from the secret compartment that I had dug out and put them in my jacket.  That was it.  It was finally time go.
    I stood at the front door and looked back at my sparsely decorated house one last time, the gun slung over one shoulder.  It wasn’t too late to back out, but I knew that wasn’t an option anymore.  I was packed, I was armed, and I was ready.  There were whispered rumors about a resistance movement in the mountains a few hundred miles to the east of here.  I figured I had just enough fuel left on my ration card to get me there.
    Such groups had been sprouting up all over the country in the last few years, a few had actually made it onto the news, before they were “apprehended” that is.  But they weren’t called rebels, freedom fighters, or soldiers of the revolution.  They were simply domestic terrorists, and received all the fear and loathing that the name implied.  I was no longer Michael White, full time waiter and part time writer.  Now, I was just another outlaw.  Now, I’m the terrorist.  
         
       
    

Author's Note

This is a little story I racked out in about a day. Just messing around and thought it might be a good first piece to post on this sight. Enjoy...or don't. Your choice I suppose.
I know it has some grammar and punctuation problems. I'll be sure to correct those before I submit it for publishing.