A story.

[Mhera]

This is a paper I did for English class this year. We had read Harrison Bergeron, a short story by Kurt Vonnegut depicting a dystopian future where excellence is against the law, and one of our assignments regarding it was to write a story as if we were living in such a future and were on trial for being exceptional. Sierra badgered me into posting this, so if you read it and hate it blame him (same thing if you like it, too; thanks man ).

Before you continue, it might be helpful to know that I run track and Martha Stewart is a famous do-it-yourself cooking lady (for lack of a better description ).

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     I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Cold and hard, its qualities matched those of the rotund, red-faced judge staring straight at me. Shifting my gaze away from his ugly visage, I examined my surroundings for the umpteenth time in an effort to distract my mind from the coming pronouncement of my fate. The court room I was in was constructed of the stereotypical shades of brown and tan one sees in movies; ornate railings separated the various groups of citizens who had filed in to see the show. The empty jury box was to my left, and the buzzing crowd filling the room with low murmurs and speculation shifted across the aisles behind me as the mass squeezed in to make room for all attendants. The District Attorney, a short, skinny man with a face reminiscent of a weasel's, was shuffling papers to my right. The judge himself sat up high in his wooden enclosure, looking down upon us all, and particularly me, the accused, with a gaze oozing his sense of superiority at such inferior beings as us.

     Despite all of this something was off; unlike the court rooms of the past which were carefully constructed, this place had a feeling of ramshackle laziness. I checked my observations again, first glancing over my shoulder at the crowd. Ill-fitting clothes decorated their bodies; women's make-up was smeared and the wrong shade. Men had crusty scabs on their chins from where they had cut themselves shaving, if they had shaved at all. Wandering to the woodwork next, my eyes observed the dried glue exuding from the joints and the wrongly measured pieces of mahogany and plywood jammed together to form a rickety, mismatched barricade. Unevenly applied paint decorated the walls and ceiling, rippled from water damage as the result of a poorly shingled roof. The room echoed with the sound of chairs clacking on the floor as people rocked back and forth on their seats' unevenly cut legs. A throughly shoddy place, representative of the present time. A time when excellence is no longer encouraged but rather prosecuted, which is why I was in this position to begin with. I was wrongly accused of excellence and on trial for this most egregious crime.

     The jury had spent two full hours deliberating my case, which worried me slightly. Having refused the offer of a state appointed lawyer (I didn't want a recent college grad still flaunting his bad grades as a badge of honor defending me) I had made my own defense.

     When the D.A. accused me of being an excellent runner based on a few wins and some alright times I had pointed out- with a stuttering shyness appropriate for one as not excellent at public speaking as I am- that my times and finishing spots where well off the U.S. Olympic Trials qualifying marks, a commonly accepted measure of excellence in the world of running. Of course the marks had been eased by several minutes each to discourage exceptional performances, and the International Olympic Committee was currently in the process of abolishing them all together to comply with the newest excellence laws, but that was beside the point. I was not an excellent runner by any means, not even their standards.

     Undeterred, the D.A. had brought forth his next price of evidence: a cracked, misshapen plate full of beautiful chocolate chip cookies I had made earlier in the week. This Exhibit B was supposed to prove what a fantastic baker I was. True, my chocolate chip cookies are extremely good, especially when compared to the hockey pucks bakeries churn out nowadays, and I was worried about what I was going to say in my defense. Actually, however, I didn't need to say a word at all; the professional witness, Martha Stewart, had taken a bite and immediately picked up on the Crisco and cheap chocolate I had used. Her disgusted facial expression matched that of the D.A.'s when he realized his case was beginning to crumble.

     Flustered and a little embarrassed by his failings, the D.A. leveled his final accusation at me, focusing the spotlight on my school grades. This was easy to dismiss; I merely had to point out to a few disappointing chemistry tests. I admit to feeling a little smug at his reaction when he saw evidence of my failure to immediately grasp significant figures. His face fallen, the D.A. admitted that he had nothing more to accuse me of and the jury filed out. Certain that my innocence was proven by arbitrary standards, Crisco, and a few misplaced decimal points, I relaxed and waited for the few minutes that it would take the jury to declare me not guilty.

     Except that it wasn't minutes. The clock ticked past the two hour mark and my anxiety began to rise. My defense had been impeccable, and there was no way I could be condemned by any of the evidence. Why couldn't they just come out and pronounce me mediocre and be done with it?

      Finally, the deliberation ended and everyone wandered back into the seedy walls of the court room, leaving me sitting alone on this uncomfortable chair under the scrutiny of the judge and the crowd. The twelve men and women prepared to give what was certainly a favorable verdict entered the jury box via a creaky door and took their seats. There was something disturbing about the way they acted as they did so; they were shuffling, averting their eyes, doing everything possible to avoid looking at me, whereas during the trial they had no such qualms. My heart sank.

     After the judge roared for silence the usual formalities took place, giving me that much more time to think. Maybe they weren't trying to avoid me but rather the D.A.; that would make far more sense as he was the one who had been embarrassed and not me. The kind souls of the jurors couldn't bear looking at the poor little fellow when he had been so deftly put down by a lawyer-less defendant. I had no such reservations. Turning my attention to the D.A. as the judge droned on about laws and such, I gave a wide grin through lipstick smeared teeth to my courtroom adversary and watched the little weasel's expression sour even further. My confidence restored, I settled down again and awaited the verdict.

     Eventually the judge had his fill of his own voice and allowed the jury to speak. The foreman stood and began.

     "The case put against the defendant is weak and unsubstantiated, which is admittedly appropriate as the honorable District Attorney would be breaching the law if he did his job too well. The defendant constructed an irrefutable argument for her innocence," here he paused and looked at me and the D.A. The room was completely silent; I even heard a pin drop as a juror hastily removed a bobby from her hair when she realized it might look too good.

     "In fact," the foreman resumed quietly, "the only word that we the jury could use to describe the quality of the defendant's argument is excellent."

     I stared slack-jawed at a place in front of me, vaguely aware of the strange smile that crept up the D.A.'s face as he declared in a wheedling tone, "Well now, excellent you say?"

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Thanks for reading. I'd appreciate any constructive criticism ya'll might have

[Luftwaffles]

Aww, but I was just starting to have fun bugging you! Now what am I going to do with all my ideas? You are not fun, Mhera

Well, I have already said this, but I'm going to say it again: this is definitely the best text that I have read here (and I just read one that was excellent not five minutes ago, so that definitely says something). The story, characters, idea and finale are all top-notch and so is the refined vocabulary used in here -that you know I had to stop and look up almost phrase by phrase -.

I'm honestly still amazed at this story and I'm definitely looking forward to keep forcing you into posting your works !

[Søren]

Wow Mhera, that was really good!

[Izeroth]

 I really liked it; I think it would work well as part of a larger collection of stories.

[Mhera]

Thanks guys!

I really liked it; I think it would work well as part of a larger collection of stories.

What type of stories? Ones set in the same time and circumstances? That might be interesting. If you mean using the same characters, though, that would be kind of weird to write because I'm the protagonist

[rrrrr]

--clap very hard--

It's very good

[Mhera]

Thank you!

[Skyblade]

Hey, I saw this earlier, but I was at band camp at the time and wasn't able to read it. Now I did, and I'm glad. Your posts in other threads seemed to insinuate that you're not a very good writer, but clearly, that is not the case. Well done; I'm truly impressed.

[Mhera]

Thanks

[Norham Waterpaw]

That was... Excellent. Nice job Mhera! 

[Mhera]

I see what you did there...

And thank you.

[Skyblade]

Wait, what did he do?

*understands pun*

Oh.

[Russa Nodrey]

That was very well written, excellent in fact.

[Mhera]

@Sky: While subtle, it was still an excellent pun.

That was very well written, excellent in fact.

Do you want me to go to prison?

[Russa Nodrey]

Um, n-no. *Whimpers*