Red Ink (520 words)

Being a man of his intellect the world was all wrong; everything was too simple, dumbed down, never conveying the right message. As he stared down at the text it bothered him ever so much. How could someone not only make such a statement, but be paid by having it published. He could feel the anger build inside of him. Without thinking, he rummaged around in his satchel for a pen. When he finally pulled one out, it was red, the likes a teacher used to mark his work as a boy. A few quick glances over the shoulders. The librarian is busy at her desk. The others engrossed in their work, or flicking through the Internet. He drew a line under the text that inflamed him so, and wrote in the right hand margin "Bullshit!". For the first time in his life he had made a stand against the establishment, and it was invigorating. This pride for his own art filled his whole afternoon as he sat there looking at what he had done.

On his way home that night he saw so much more that bothered him. Billboards promising a better way of life, newspaper vendors taunting today's tragedy to pay their bills, even the television filled his evening with bad soaps conveying mixed metaphors of how to conduct your life. But for the first time he felt empowered to change these things, for his voice to be heard.

He was awake the next morning, brushed down and dressed before his alarm went off. With purpose in his step he made is way back to the local library. If just the forward of a simple play was wrong, there must be so much more for him to do within more important books on history, science and art. From open to close he sat there, reading book after book in his secluded corner, making alterations and jotting his viewpoint down in the right hand column. With practice came a more defined view, until all media with the library was nothing more than a vessel to perpetuate political viewpoints and myths. A few students who were common visitors soon started to recognise the man, an sat around his table listing to his new viewpoint.
"What do you think of this or that?", they would ask and he would read their coursework books for them, giving the student his material for the next essay.

It wasn't long before the library grew suspicious of the man's new found popularity. Staff try their best to subtly overlook what he was doing, overhear his seminars with students. They paid attention to which book he was reading, and then when he put them back scouted through the pages. The investigation was short, and the man's library membership and right to admittance were revoked.

Enraged in the same way that first line of text made him, the man protested his punishment outside the building, lecturing about the conformist agenda the library held. But the people did not want to hear the rantings of a crazy man. He had lost; the system he initially never intended to fight had one.