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Aaron – 35D stepped out into the dank street. The black liquidized pollution that they called rain trickled down the streets. Looking up Aaron sighed; more black clouds were starting cover the city, threatening to bucket down their chemical waste. Everything was acid-proof now days, jackets, roofs, and even the plants that were able to survive, miraculously; in the nooks between buildings and in the unmaintained roofs of the city. The rain was relentless, keeping the Sun locked up and out of view. Aaron hadn’t had a sunny day in two months. He was beginning to think that he might not ever see the sun again. It was a depressing thought.


Aaron – 35D took the escalator down into the disgusting metro system. The grubby intestines of the city. Home of the cities’ waste; filled with the city’s s**t. Aaron sat waiting for his train, observing this cultural jungle that he was in. An old senile man seemingly distant to the world sat blankly rubbing two pieces of plastic together, across the way three rebellious youths, neoteric cad, and grinning charmingly were busy tagging the subway walls with an enlightening message. The green mist hissed civilly out of the bottle leaving a bold message for the world: Fighting for peace is like screwing for virginity.


Slowly, one sad and lonely train screeched into the station and unloaded before him, suddenly flooding the station with business men and women scuffling about, purposely, zombies of no expression. W***es to the modern world. Just like Aaron.


Aaron – 35D was a manager of a work yard at a bomb factory. He got his job the same way as everyone else did. As a newly born, before his mom even saw him, and before he was assigned his name or his parental family he was taken to a small, white, sanitary, room with three doctors holding clipboards, they measured body parts, took blood samples, and scans of his brain. They calculated his intelligence and determined what school he would be enrolled in, and right there when he wasn’t a day old they decided on his occupation. He never met his real mother.


Everything was owned by the government, everything from the company he worked for to newspapers, to the people themselves. The New World Republic controlled much of the world; eighty-seven percent according to the media, but any one who was smart knew that what the news said was very likely to be lies, no one had proof but it was in the back of everyone’s mind. And the people that were smart enough to not believe the media were also smart enough to not speak out against it. They were told that they were fighting the rest of the world for the greater good, they were fighting the world for world peace, that when the world was united under one government than everything would be perfect, it would be a utopia. World peace; they were fighting for peace.


Aaron wondered many times why someone would do something as ridiculous as fighting for peace. Aaron figured they just wanted to control the world and this was they’re justification. Lower class people the people that worked the machines at the factory, people like that, the government sent to the brainwashing schools, the government used them as their brainless labor force. There were three types of schools. The brain washing one, the one Aaron had been though and the ones super smart people went to. The higher classing people knew what really went on but were too rich and busy getting richer to care about anyone but themselves.


Aaron had been thinking a lot lately so when he was bored senseless from wading through mounds of paper work, he quickly downed all his coffee and went to the break room for a time consuming refill. In the boring room was a boss that Aaron recognized but yet couldn’t recall the name of. The boss sat watching him as Aaron poured himself a cup of coffee. The higher class of people in the company thought Aaron was interesting, thus they considered him conversation worthy, yet enjoyed keeping him in the dark on any topic of importance. “Hello Aaron how’s the Detroit project going?” called the boss Aaron didn’t know from the table. Aaron’s workstation was supposed to be meeting a quota of half a million atomic bombs for shipment to Detroit by next month. “Can I ask you something?” “Yes.” The boss was caught off guard by Aaron’s response, sure the question had been intended to start a conversation, but he had wanted to steer the boat of conversation and here Aaron had jumped aboard and commandeered the ship. “Do you know why we’re at war, I mean if we want peace shouldn’t we just stop fighting, shouldn’t we just stop making bombs and pull troops back, and sign a treaty? I mean what are we doing here?” The boss paused for a moment thinking and then replied in a matter of fact way, the way a parent would tell a child not to mess with the buttons in the car because it might self-destruct, knowing it was a lie and bad one but expecting the person to lap it up as the truth. “Well, Aaron we’re fighting for the idea of peace forever. If we own the world, there will no longer even have the threat of war. What we’re building is a world peace; we’re building bombs of peace.” He said smiling like a fox.


Aaron thought this was ridiculous. He also knew it wasn’t smart to mention his opinions. But lately Aaron had been so soaked up in his thoughts and so distant to the world that the decision was different then it might have been had he been acting normally. But he did. “Isn’t it a bit hypocritical to do this?” The expression on the boss’s face fell. Even if it was a lie and obvious, it was unwritten rule of this f***ed up society that Aaron should have stopped talking. The boss went on, “Aaron I’d really like to discuss this, but it’s against company policies.” “Its just if we really were serious about wanting peace we’d stop fighting right? And how do we know we’re even winning, we could be losing the war and not know. The government owns the newspapers, right? They could be feeding us lies.” “Aaron this is quite an interesting conversation, but I’m afraid I have to go; late for a meeting.” He quickly picked up his suitcase and jacket, rushing out the door, and leaving Aaron sitting there basking in his stupidity.


Back in his office Aaron pulled up the blinds in his office to look down upon his work yard, thinking. With his feet propped up against his desk he watched as expressionless zombies assembled bombs, dutifully loading the potential death of thousands into chunks of metal barely two feet long. They didn’t even know what they were doing, what they were creating.


He knew his boss would rat on him to higher powers to have him terminated and if not it would only be because he had the power himself and could go straight to the secret police. The government treated its citizens like lab mice. They served their purpose and in case of they got out of hand, or lost their usefulness they were completely disposable. And as he walked he realized he didn’t care, he wasn’t afraid. Whatever death was couldn’t possibly be worse then this f***ed up world called life. Aaron wasn’t walking home; he was walking aimlessly through town as chemical waste rained down upon him, knowing he couldn't throw off the sercet police for long. Warring thunderclouds bellowed above; sounding distantly like war drums.



Once as a child Aaron had watched a video of an extinct animal; a lion: a powerful creature with a mighty roar. He was reminded of that now, as a great roar drew his face skyward. He watched the urban skies for origins of the great noise. Chemicals were falling into Aaron’s eyes, burning them, turning them red. He blinked away the pain and watched. A jet shot past leaving a sonic roar in its wake, then another, and another. Soon it’s a whole flock of them, like geese heading south for winter, only inside these geese’s bellies lay tons and tons of domesticated death. And the insignia on them is unfamiliar. These jets belong to another country. And they are dropping something.


Bombs drop through the sky so gingerly; spinning like ballerinas, they pummel into buildings, exploding into wondrous fireballs. Industrial death, made to kill thousands at a time at its work, war after all is a factory of death. Aaron smiles; watching as his s****y world burns. Buildings sprout red-orange flowers blooming wonderful petals of fire. And as the world turns into an inferno around him, he smiles. Calm amidst the chaos, a breeze amidst the gale, Aaron laughs; bombs of peace.






“Fighting for peace is like screwing for virginity.” – George Carlin





Join the Discussion

This article has 10 comments. Post your own now!

DarkMountain said...
Jul. 18, 2010 at 10:12 pm
Great, but there were a couple sentences in the story that really needed commas.  Also, try to find a way to add intensity other than swearing with asterisks.  After a while it gets repetitive and loses meaning.  Overall good job though, awesome storyline.
 
Item-89 replied...
Sept. 18, 2010 at 6:59 pm
I didnt swear with *'s teenink censors the cuss words.
 
DarkMountain replied...
Sept. 19, 2010 at 2:29 pm
Oh.  That makes sense.  Sorry! Great story!
 
Sir-William said...
Jun. 2, 2010 at 1:10 am
Very interesting!
 
ajkstarr replied...
Jun. 3, 2010 at 6:15 pm
In the very beginning, you repeat the discriptions of rain, we already know that it's poisonous... in the second paragraph, I don't think you need to call him 35-D again. I would change his id number, cause it sounds like a bra size... The descriptions were pretty solid.. in the conversation with the boss it's sometimes not clear who's saying what... y0u tell us what aaron is feeling, but he doen't really doanything to show us. if he's angry, don't just say he is but show by ... (more »)
 
Item-89 replied...
Sept. 18, 2010 at 7:00 pm
Interesting.... but your the only one to say that about the bra size thing, makes sense but... no one else has ever said it and I think ill keep it though thanks for the thought
 
Sir-William replied...
Sept. 18, 2010 at 8:36 pm
I say that the "Bra-size" thing should not matter. Only if your mind was in the gutter would you get that from th story.
 
malibuloveschanel said...
May 20, 2010 at 10:24 pm
keep up the good job:) you have talent...p.s. you're writing is very unique, which is a good thing:) a true writer possesses originality:)
 
elizabethlaura said...
May 20, 2010 at 8:19 pm
this is very dark, and deep, good job!
 
DanceAwayThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
May 20, 2010 at 6:56 pm
not my usual type of thing, but interesting. good job.
 
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