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A short story on request. Incorporated a combination of submitted words from three classmates, Miaka, Ling and Chuckie.
Written on June 7 2002, copyrighted Lillie 2002.

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No Holidays Here

He was hot, bored, and agonizingly hungry. His cell was a lame jumping space. All they let him bring to this anal-probing place was a pencil, a calculator, a highlighter and his spectacles, and with those things he did physics questions on the walls all day long. The neo-Nazi roadsters looked at him funny just because he was black.

Fatigue tormented him constantly yet he could not sleep. He was sick of this place. It was infested with screeching, mutated, gaylords. No doubt they were all babies of cloning experiments. No doubt.

He wanted to go home. Play with his water guns and loaded pistols. Maybe even enjoy eastern cuisine though he had yet to taste that shit.

Here, it was too humid. Sometimes they would let them persuasive fools watch a football game on telly or play with the gerbils. The only food they gave him was at 12:20, all tasting like blue cheese. He would rarely eat it. They probably slipped in witch dust or something, to keep them all extra trained. Sometimes he thought he saw some floating in the plastic water-bottle they gave him. All plastic. No glass. Idiocy.

No holidays here. No one to post mail to.

An “angel” trapped in this... jungle.

The asylum.

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