I’m in a long time from now far away place, and I’m a writer.

“So what’s the big deal about that?” you probably said. (Sorry if my speaking to you in second-person-accusatory mode bothers you, but it’s necessary, as you will see).

The fact is, in this long time from now far away place, you wouldn’t want to take the chance of being called a writer, because in this long time from now far away place, being a writer is “against the rules.”

There I go again, breaking the rules by telling you the punch line of the story. Well, so what. (Before you say anything, I know that sentence should end with a question mark, but it wasn’t really a question, was it? It’s my story and I can punctuate it any way I want to if it helps me make my point. What does it matter if I break another rule; Obviously, I’ve already been convicted of being a rule breaker, so what are they going to do, prosecute me twice?)

You might say, “All that said, what’s the story?”

Then I would say, “I’m getting to it.”

Here goes:

It’s night, which doesn’t matter to you because the scene I’m about to set up for you is inside.

Here’s the scene:

I’m inside a room that no windows. Artificial light. (See there. With no windows in this room, you wouldn’t even know it’s night if I hadn’t told you.)

This room is my prison, a place to keep a “deviant” like me. (It’s not the kind of prison that has cells and bars and guards—there is no such thing anymore.) I’m being held here in this room until they can decide how to “deal with” me. However, I’m guessing it’s been so long since they had an actual deviant like me, they’re not quite sure what they should do with me.

Why am I a “deviant”? you may ask.

Because I broke “the rules.” I would say.

How did I break the rules? you may ask.

By being a writer, I would say.

Actually, I’ve never heard anybody say what the specific rule is that’s against being a writer, but obviously, it must be against some (unwritten?) rule that everybody but me knows about.

But I’m beginning to get the feeling that it’s been so long since anybody broke that particular rule, nobody thought about what to do if somebody did it. Maybe the authorities don’t even know who to ask. Maybe they’re afraid asking is against the rules.

So here I sit, all alone in this room, waiting for them (whoever they are) to decide my fate.

Okay, I guess I’d better tell you how I got myself in this mess.

It all began when I started writing stories. When I was very young boy, I liked to make up stories. My parents weren’t quite sure what a writer of stories was, so they just went along with it. I think they must have decided that my wanting to write stories would be something I would grow out of, like growing out of having an imaginary friend.

But I didn’t grow out of it. In kindergarten, instead of using my crayons to draw a picture, as instructed, I wrote a story, in red crayon, about a boy who grew wings so he could fly up to a mountain top and look down on everybody.

My teachers didn’t know what to make of it. They weren’t sure if they should report it or not. They weren’t even sure what to call what I was doing. And besides, if they reported it, they themselves might be blamed.

Finally, when I kept on doing it, they sent me to the school principal. He sat me down and asked why I was doing . . . well, whatever it was I was doing.

I said, “I just like to make up stories.”

He said, “Why would you want to do that? Why make up things that are not true? In our wonderful society where everything is provided and nobody ever gets sick or scared or unhappy, why would anybody write about people wanting to be something they are not?”

I said, “They’re just words. I like to make up stories out of words.”

“They’re not just words,” he said, “they’re untrue words, and that is not allowed.”

“It’s not allowed? Why?”

"Words should not be used in that way," he said. "Words are used to convey information. For example, words are used to put captions under the news we see on the televiewer. Those words explain what we are being shown, and there are often additional words that explain how we are to react to what they are seeing.”

Well, for sure the words I was writing weren’t like that. Back then, the words I was writing were being used to make up stories about magical beasts and super heroes and wonderful other planets where things are different than here. And I didn’t think I needed to add more words to explain how readers were supposed to think about my stories. I said, “Why can’t they decide for themselves?”

That was too much for him. I got kicked out of school.

Didn’t matter to me. I was bored by it anyhow—nothing but propaganda about how wonderful the committee was, and what a great society they had created for us all. Boring!!!

My parents were disgraced, and I was taken out of my home. But since everybody in this society is required, by law, to be taken care of, despite my young age, they locked me in one of the small plastic windowless rooms designed for single males as temporary housing when their hormones begin to act up. Such teenaged males are kept “under wraps” until the committee can determine which single teenaged female they are to marry. Then, once the committee has selected a marriage partner for them, they are moved into a larger housing unit (with windows), and then the female of the couple will be inseminated to produce an appropriate child, depending on what the society needed at that moment in time.

I put those three dots in the middle of the page to show you a lot of time has passed. Years, in fact. They weren’t bad years. Maybe a little lonely, but I got to do all the writing I wanted to. I’m still all alone, except for the machine that provides me with food and water, and it doesn’t talk. So, what can I do except write stories? I’m sure someday I’ll be “discovered” and be a famous writer—actually, I’ll be the world’s first famous writer. I’ve even invented a new thing I call a “literary magazine.” It’s a whole magazine that has nothing in it but made-up stories. So far, of course, it only has my stories in it, but as soon as I can get the word out, I’ll invite other writers to also submit stories. That’s assuming there are other writers out there.

But how am I going to get the word out? I still haven’t been taken to trial, and that’s got me wondering if they even know how to do a trial. Maybe it’s been so long since anybody broke the rules, they don’t even know what a trial is.

The food machine continues to provide me with food and water, but in all the years I’ve been here, not one living person has ever come to talk to me. Maybe they’ve forgotten I’m here. Maybe they’ve forgotten I ever existed.

But I figure if I keep on writing stories, my writing will live on, no matter what they do to me. In fact, I’m sure of it. You’re reading it, aren’t you?