From: mlharley@unix1.tcd.ie (Kubik)
Subject: Censorship  <<Banned from alt.good.news>>
Organization: Trinity College, Dublin
Date: Thu, 30 Jul 1992 16:28:40 GMT


	It was Monday. Larry sat on his unmade bed. A puzzled, unhappy 
look on his face. In one hand was a company-issue ball-point pen. In the other,
a few pages, that resumed his last three months of research: Donna hated
Micheal. But nobody would listen, "only a fool would say that kind of
thing," they said. Who cared anyway. Who cares about Donna, and most of
all, who cares about Micheal. Two weeks later, someone found Micheal
floating in the canal.
	It was Tuesday. Again, Larry was sitting in his room. By his
desk this time. At his feet sprawled the white leaves of two months
work. Larry was most unhappy: Simon was stupid. He tried to tell them,
they hadn't taught him properly, but who cared. Simon grew up,
and got a job. He found himself a stupid wife, Sarah. They had
kids. And with nobody to teach those kids the beauty of knowledge,
those kids would grow up, blind; like Simon; like Sarah.
But what did they care?
	Wednesday. In the Bathroom. Upon the throne, Larry sobs to himself,
picking at the hairs on his pale legs. Before him, on the floor, only a
few days work, but some terrible conclusions: Pete, Pete from
downstairs, well, Pete was sick. And Pete was gonna rot, and die. Larry
didn't know Pete, but he felt sorry that the fourteen years young Pete
had lived and learned, were going to be wasted, because, who'd listen to
a sick boy? Who'd learn from that little fellow, who's skin was
blistered, and whose eyes were white, even though, deep inside, was a
new vision of the world. Pete could have done great things, but people
didn't really want to know. But why?
	On the morning of Thursday, Larry sat on the floor, legs
crossed, and his cheeks damp. After nearly a year of intensive work, he
had finally come to the conclusion of his latest project. Larry was sad,
because, it was an ugly result: Mortimer, such a nice fellow, everbody
thought, was not a nice person at all. Deep inside poor Mortimer's
little brain, hatred and selfishness burnt alongside deep, dark desires.
Mortimer spends a lot of time in the park. Nobody else knew, and they
wouldn't believe Larry when he told them. Mortimer hid in the bushes,
and waited for little girls to pass. Mortimer was bad, Mortimer was
Evil. "No, no, not Mortimer. Larry you old fool. How DARE you say
something like that. Mister Mortimer is a man of taste, and he's good
looking too. He wouldn't do things like that. He's a nice man." they
said. "Maybe YOU are the one who hides in the bushes. And now you 
are trying to cover up! After all, you're ugly, and you keep to
yourself all the time. You're the vicious one, behind that shy look lies
a wild Beast!" they screamed. So Larry just sat there. And cried at what
the world was. Why wouldn't they listen? Three days later, little Sue
was found under a mistletoe, raped, and torn, as though by a savage
beast. And as they came, to pound on his door, and scream under his
window, Larry cried to himself, deep, painful tears. Why?
	Now it was Friday, and Larry lay on the hard floor, under the
window, and gazed out at the sky. He was old now. His hair was grey, and
his skin was wrinkled and waxy. Still, nobody listened. And Larry had
completed his final project. He felt the memory of a wetness in the
corner of his eye, but he can weep no more. Why? He had so often asked
himself, why would they never listen. He looked again and again at the
papers before him. There was no mistake. His calculations were crystal
clear. They were afraid. They didn't want to hear about how bad and ugly
things might really be. They were content to live on, stupid, and deaf,
blind to the truth. "All must be beautiful, and happy," they said. Out
of fear of the truth, out of fear that they might be wrong, and things
might not be as beautiful as they liked to think, they chose not to
listen to him, to Larry.

	'Tomorrow is Saturday,' thought Larry, 'I could do with a
break.'



--
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mark Harley...	         |  "Truth is, Belief is not required",  Gerry Roston.
mlharley@unix1.tcd.ie    |
(Kubik)		         |  "I am, Belief is not required",                Me. 
Newsgroups: alt.prose