Orange Skies

The sky is always orange, a perpetual sunset, an always ending. Sometimes there are clouds, pink fluff on the edges. There are mornings I wish it a different color as I ride my bike to school over the bumpy cobblestone roads, like the blue I read in story-books growing up. But it never changes. Nothing in our city ever does.

The sign on the steeple always reads "REPENT." The grocery store never sells more than milk, bread, and beef. The farms grow corn and the little shops are always run by old women. I don't think anyone understands the concept of new. 

In third grade we had to present what we wanted to do in the future. I said move out of here, travel, explore. The whole class balked and the teacher marked me down on the assignment for letting my mind wander too much. We can't leave her, she told me. This is our home, why would you even want to?

Since then I grew up, figuring out that there was electrical fences on the outskirts. I never actually saw the outskirts--too dangerous, but I know about them. They tell us about the people who live there, in tents, in poverty. But they deserve to be because they raise propaganda against the city. They vandalize the bridges and stone walls with words like 'Escape' and 'Think for yourselves.' We hear the stories of their danger at the Friday bonfires were we have to burn their statements. 

I'll never dare say it, I can't live with them...but the people on the outskirts, I'm starting to think they have the right idea. We need to cross the fence.