"Background Laughter" by Emily McDurman

Usually in worlds, there are sad people, jubilant people, apathetic people, and sometimes psychotic people who go around wreaking havoc on the lands of Earth. But in this particular time warp, there were no sad, apathetic people; all that were left where the optimists.

Syll stood in the crowded area, looking around to the contented faces that refused to frown, even in the most undesirable situations.

He stood; waiting as his thoughts jumbled, his eyes darting around to every smiling face, when suddenly he didn’t feel happy.

In all his seventeen years of life, he had never remembered a moment when happiness was not brought forth to him, and this depressed him.

The smile from his face faded slowly, the look of optimism escaped his glowing eyes, all replaced with a tedious feeling.

He felt a sudden wave of tiresome come over him. His arms felt like weights connected to his body, and his head seemed too heavy on his neck. His eyes drooped and he felt old suddenly, suddenly so old even at such a young age. He figured he must have been aging right before the very eyes of the people around him, he could just imagine it: his jet black hair turning gray, his healthy skin wrinkling slowly, and his bright sapphire eyes dulling to a gray metal.

The man beside him looked at him. Not in a concerned way, but in a happy way, which only dejected Syll more. Syll gazed back at him pleadingly, tilting his head as if asking for mercy.

The man gasped within the noisy crowd, stepping back and clutching his heart, his face still happy, but a shed of confusion formed over it. Then the man was confused no more, and a raging shock overcame his features, a sly, malevolent smile on his lips.

“Wait…” Syll moaned, his head thrusting back and his feet moving too slowly to get away.

The man removed a pistol from his breast pocket, cocked the gun, and inoculated a single shot into Syll's head, right between the eyes.

Syll stood for a half a moment; the same ghastly look on his face, and then shattered to the ground, the back of his head bloodied, a neat hole in his face.

Within the large crowd the cheering did not falter despite the ringing of the gunshot. The people were laughing, the children playing near the dead body and blood of Syll. No commotion, no radical movements, nothing but joyfulness and praise of others.

The crowd was gathered at a world meeting, and the world in those days to come was not very large at all. In front of them was their president, smiling and waving at them in a jovial pursuit. Behind him the important leaders of the world and behind them a large, dominating public notice that covered almost the entire building it was propped on.

On it read in large, red letters so everyone could read whenever they questioned their happiness, “Bring Death To Those Unhappy.”