It all started on a typical Monday morning. On the Bengal Update, it was announced, “Attention Lewiston High students, all doors will remain locked throughout the day. This will be effective immediately.”
Just like that, the Lewiston High School turned from a school to a prison. Every hallway became a maze of locked entrances, and students were forced to buzz their hair and get tattoos, and pray for mercy every time they needed to go to the water fountain.
Freshman, Johny Johnson, reportedly spent an entire class hour stuck after gym class, knocking on the window while her classmates watched helplessly.
“Rules are rules,” the fitness teacher shrugged.
Then came the second blow—the DoorDash ban. Every order was confiscated by the office in the name of “safety.” Rumor has it that all the food goes directly to the staff fridge.
In just one day, the school became a black market for food. Students began forming underground operations, sneaking in Taco Bell through the band hallway and exchanging fries like illegal contraband.
“I paid $20 for a burrito,” one senior confessed. “Best money I ever spent.”
What little spirit remained was destroyed when the biggest decree yet was announced: the phone ban. Teachers lined the hallways and cheered as students were forced to surrender their devices to a large cage in the commons. Resembling a jail cell, the structure cast a shadow over the cafeteria, leaving students shuddering. Silence replaced the familiar sound of snap notifications.
“I tried to check the time,” one freshman said through sobs, “but we were never taught how to read clocks!”
By the end of the week, the Lewiston High School was a hushed, hungry, disconnected society. The hallways echoed with whispers of rebellion and the smell of cafeteria food that no one truly trusted. Now DoorDash drivers won’t dare lay a foot near the school after one went missing on campus.
Now we live cautiously, surviving on school lunch and the hope that one day, freedom—and fries—will return. Until then, we carry on, phones locked away, doors sealed tight, dreaming of the familiar chime of a delivery notification.
Admin calls it safety.
We call it captivity.
