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The Truth About Terrorists

Posted: October 8, 2010 by narcher007 in Dystopian Fiction, Fiction, Political Fiction

The terrorists, always the terrorists.  The only reason they give is the terrorists.  I know the truth, the terrorists don’t exist, at least not in the form they want us to believe.  The real terrorists are in charge.writing

A year ago they repealed the 4th Amendment.  Gone.  Just like that.

It all started with the Patriot Act, a bill nobody remembers anymore because it’s so old, but I remember.  With that they could listen in on us during phone calls.  Nobody owns a phone anymore.  A few years later, they passed another law giving them control to shut off the internet.  Some people unhooked and started their own internet.

Those people were lined up and shot on live television, as terrorists.  Terrorists.

At one time, America loved innovators, innovators founded America.  Not anymore.  If you innovate now you are a terrorist.  Now a terrorist doesn’t blow up buildings with bombs, today a terrorist is somebody who ‘threatens’ public safety.  That’s why they repealed the 4th Amendment, so they could make sure nobody secretly planned to harm the common good.

They track us.  They used to track us through cell phones and computers, but everyone got rid of them after the infestation, the government infestation into the private sector, into private lives.  We are now cattle, the only difference is that we know it used to be better, where the cattle are oblivious.  Most of us are now oblivious.  It’s gone on for enough generations now, this is the new status quo.

They implanted a chip in my head.  A hand you can cut off, but you’d be hard pressed to cut off your head.  Some have, though.

They know where I am, when and what I eat, when I use the bathroom, who I talk to and what I talk about.  They don’t know what I’m writing.  They stopped teaching reading and writing in the schools.  Maybe nobody will read my message, maybe this is a waste of time, writing this down.  I don’t know.  I will never know.  I’m sure as soon as I lift this makeshift pen from the inside of this cereal box, they will be at my door.  Somehow they must know.

They always know.

I remember being told stories about real cereal, sugary and colorful.  That is not what our cereal is any longer.  No sugar, no salt, no fat.  We are mandated to take one pill a morning.  We are told it contains our daily limit of salt, as well as some other ‘necessary’ vitamins.  I’m surprised they didn’t make it in the form of a suppository.  If I had to be thankful for one thing, I suppose it’s that.  The pill communicates with the chip in my head, so if I try to skip a day, they know.

They don’t waste time showing up, beating you, and forcing you to swallow the pill.

There must be a mood-enhancer in that pill, because I always feel so calm afterwards.  I don’t think they have the dosage right, because it wears off within an hour.  I’m not telling them.  The rest of the people I live with practically shuffle around with a glazed look on their face, and some of them aren’t even required to take the pill.  Only those of us with PFT, potential-for-thought, are required to take the pill.  PFT is now something to be ashamed of, something to hide.

On one of my unauthorized excursions, I found a stack of books waiting to be incinerated.  If they ever knew I took them…

During an upgrade to the chip in my head, I found time to slip out.  The upgrade required a 30 minute boot-up time, which was 30 minutes of freedom.  Freedom from the cubes.  We all live in buildings that look the same, but have different numbers.  Four of us share an 8′ X 8′ cube.  Two bunk beds, two dressers for clothes.  Nothing else.  No decorations, just pale, white walls.

That’s why I risked everything to get out, even if only that once.  You can’t think in the cube.cube

It’s meal time, I’m supposed to be eating with my comrades but I’m not.  I’m writing.  I’m a terrorist.  At least in their eyes.  I can’t stand another meal of that grey, tasteless mush.  As a child, I once found an ear of corn.  It was partially rotted, but so colorful.  I took a bite and I immediately knew what they kept from us.

I’ve over-stayed my welcome, they know I’m not in the mess hall.

Once they repealed the 4th Amendment, it kept going downhill.  If they are no longer forbidden from unreasonable searches and seizures, we can no longer expect privacy, so they can quarter themselves in our homes.  They never repealed the 2nd Amendment, they simply outlawed the manufacture of ammunition.  During the Uprising of the Common Good, they determined a list of unsafe items, items that a terrorist might use, and went about collecting all contraband from every household.  It took some time, but soon everybody’s stockpile of ammunition vanished, and they could no longer defend themselves.

It is almost funny how giving up such a small freedom can cascade into something terrible.

There are times when I sob, and times when I laugh uncontrollably.  Ever since that pill and the re-education, my mind is prone to wandering.  I’m surprised I’ve been able to stay mostly on topic.  I guess that goes to show what you can achieve when you apply your mind.  But don’t listen to me, I’m just a terrorist.  The common good does not translate into the good for anyone but them, those in charge.

It’s been over 5 minutes, they should have been here by now.  That must mean this is my last offense.

They keep records, you know.  I already have a series of offenses on mine.  Missing meal time is one of the greater offenses a person can be charged with.  I can’t even contemplate what they’ll do if they find this writing.  My message is subversive, but they need subverting.  I will wage a war with them, even if the only weapon I posses is my mind.

I hear footsteps in the corridor.  They are coming for me.

I wish I could leave you with my name, at least, but they took that years ago.  My name is now part of national security, like all our names are.  Once we win this war on terror, our names will be reinstated.  Until then I have no name.

They’re at the door.  I’m glad I put that bunk bed in front of it, that should slow them down a little.

I’m sure I will not see tomorrow, though I don’t know if that will be different than waking up in this windowless room.  Maybe I’ll get to see the sun once before they execute me.  I’ve been a bad citizen, after all, not caring for the common good.  I just wish I could give you a name, a name that would live on and inspire others to stand up for themselves.

If I can’t give you a name, I will give you a symbol, a symbol that I saw on my one excursion, a symbol that made me smile.

The bed is sliding, the door opening.  It won’t be long now.  I’m hiding this.  I hope it finds you…

Sincerely,

$

© 2010 Nate Phillipps
Faith Through Fear

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Hit The Sidewalk

Posted: October 2, 2010 by narcher007 in Fiction, Parables
Tags: , , ,

The cold sidewalk crept along the street, upholding the feet of busy bodies.  The sidewalk didn’t mind; at first the sidewalk was new and everybody enjoyed it greatly.  The users worked for a living  and upkeep happened every week.  The street cleaner swept the autumn leaves away every day.

Soon the shoes started to squeak and moan with every step.  The leaves started to accumulate in piles, the street sweeper didn’t come around as often.  One day, the sidewalk felt a gooey wetness but the sun shone strong.  Slowly, the sidewalk realized somebody’s spit now adorned the surface of the pavement.

Shambles!  The sidewalk yearned to only be spit upon, but now, covered in discarded gum, litter, cracks, and even the occasional homeless person, the sidewalk’s pride sunk to a new low.  The once pristine sidewalk that served the productive members of society now served the rabble.  The heat and feet took too big a toll, and soon the sidewalk started to crumble.

After receiving several complaints from people who paid no taxes, the government came and started to hit the sidewalk with hammers.  After completely obliterating the sidewalk, the government laid down new pavement for the homeless, the looters and leechers.  As the old sidewalk died, no tears were shed, no glasses were raised in honor of the years of service rendered.

The sidewalk crept along in a dump truck, unable to hold its shape.

© 2010 Nate Phillipps