The Oppression of RealityBlank smiles. Day in and day out, that's all I see. They're there on the walls, under the harsh lights, on the BL/ind employee faces. And even worse, it's beginning to affect the Killjoys. That is, if you can even call them that anymore. Are we still Killjoys? How can we be when we've been confined to these concentration camps of BL/ind? We were uprooted from our desert homes only to be placed in a different kind of barren wasteland. We are no longer Zonerunners. What made us who we were has ceased to exist. I swore to myself I would never fall under the control of that infernal company, and yet, here I am. I'm surrounded by more people than ever before and yet I am completely and utterly alone. Blank smiles. They make me sick.
I remember weeks of marauding on my own, carefree days spent zipping from Zone to Zone, plotting havoc that I hoped would eventually be wrought upon BL/ind. For a moment, I smile, my facial muscles unaccustomed to the motion. That had been my life. Then, I had l
EndlessBrandt Walsh was a cop, and at the age of 42, he was nearing retirement. He liked sitcoms, a comfy chair, and the stereotypical indulgence of the occasional doughnut. He did not like interrogations.
Johnny Moor was a suspect, and at the youthful age of 27, he was in the prime of his years. He enjoyed watching English soccer, sleeping on the couch, and Kit Kats. And as it just so happened, he did not like interrogations.
"You seem surprised to be seated here today," Officer Walsh opened, though he could discern nothing from John's poker-face.
"Well as you know, I have very little faith in this country's justice system," the accused replied, a slight grin tugging at the edge of his mouth.
You'd said we'd never get this far
This wasn't the first time Brandt was interrogating the variety of man he was now, and the last time he'd done so, he'd vowed he'd never do it again. Dealing with him was draining, and besides, there was only one chocolate glazed doughnut left in the lounge,
DrealityWe used to be blind as a bat
Taking life in stride, one day at a time
Our innocence our guiding light
The glow not reaching the darkest corners of reality
Today the truth is splashed across the front page
Atrocities taking center stage
People breaking, people hiding
As fact meets fiction and that pretty world crumbles
We used to feel invincible, untouchable
Opportunity was still knocking
Its fist relentless in our pursuit of dreams
But we soon awoke to this nightmare
Today a fresh fire flows through our veins
Rebel minds fight back, casting words aside
Backs rigid to the sticks and stones
For from the black cloud, we find the rainbow
The Man and the VoiceHe opened his eyes upon waking and was met with darkness. And yet, that did not bother him. He sensed that he was utterly alone in the darkness. And yet, that did not bother him. He looked inside his mind. That bothered him. Wrinkling his nose, the man inhaled a deep breath of stale air tinged with the sour scent of alcohol. He'd always thought that alcoholics became accustomed to the stench; apparently not. He delved into his mind again, this time lingering a little bit longer, but he inevitably retracted, repulsed.
What if I wanted to break
Footsteps echoed. The man tensed. He liked to be alone. It felt somehow safer. "Fancy meeting you here," a voice called, the tone neither accusatory nor sympathetic. Hardly even caring; indifferent. The man smiled to himself and took a swig from the bottle in his hand, the liquid bringing to light a new-found vigor in his body.
"What? A drunkard such as myself, here, in an alley?" He smirked, a laugh pl