Status: Slow Updates
Green Grass
Tommy
Our broadcasts, initially based on sudden inspiration, have become more frequent, although still inconsistent, except the time in the evening. Tonight is the first broadcast in which it is the second night in a row, and the first truly premeditated one. Antony and I, after Rachelle's departure yesterday evening, spoke shortly about the implications of this new seriousness in our project. Neither one of us had truly seen the station as anything but a small attempt-- not until Rachelle made it seem like more, at least.
Seeing the posters plastered on city building walls this morning is what sealed the reality of this opportunity for me. Antony and I, without even fully realizing, have come into possession of a means with which to alter a society, if only we can make the smarter moves. The catch would be to stay well hidden from the many prying eyes of city officials who would, no doubt, be displeased with the vandalism in the form of advertising posters, as well as with what we are saying to the masses.
The structure of this city is like a suspension bridge; it's got a 'too big to fail' mentality, with the support of taut cords waiting to snap. It is a suspension bridge made of secrets and unburied bones: a past that none of us know anything of. In this city, there is supposed to be no yesterday, no tomorrow, and no later today; there is only what you are doing now, what you should be doing now, and whether those two things match up. You had better hope for your own sake that they do. Anyways, I feel the bones of the city-- the living, breathing, rattling bones of a dead city... turning in its grave. And we're the ones who buried it in the first place.
I hear the latch on the shack rattling, accompanied by the muffled voice of Antony, affirming himself to me. He enters, clutching in his hands one of the posters made by Rachelle. He holds it out, grinning, commenting on how good it is in simplicity, before proudly sticking it up on the inside of the door with a pin in each corner. He stands back to observe it, and we both nod simultaneously in approval. I think he can feel the building electricity too; this is the start of something. Something real, more than either of us could have imagined.
We begin the night's broadcast with the usual words: Good evening revolutionaries and unintentional listeners, wherever you may be. Although from the amount of posters around the city, it seems we will be having many more of the latter than of the former type of listener.
About halfway through our broadcast, after receiving many confused and unaired calls asking if we were a city programming broadcast station-- we are not-- the latch rattles once more, this time with Rachelle's voice filtering through. She enters quietly, with a smile at each of us, carrying a portable radio in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. Taking a seat on the floor on top of one of the blankets, she pulls a wrapped sandwich from within the bag and listens to the remainder of the broadcast in attentive silence. We end, as always with the list of missing citizens' names and a respectful silence. Goodnight, good luck. We are Change Kings, every one of us.
Rachelle calls the ending a nice touch but says, as she stands up, that we need to step up our involvement of the listeners. She is right, of course; the citizens have blank slates for minds now, and we have the perfect means and opportunity to change that. The calls received today were all of a disconcerted nature, wondering why this is not a city-organized program. Notes for next time, I suppose. The equipment is switched off and, with thanks to Rachelle's heater and blankets, none of us are shivering anymore. She passes us each a sandwich and tosses the crumpled paper bag into a wooden crate in the corner of the shack. Jerking her head in a 'let's go' motion, she stands up to leave and we follow, always safely padlocking the door in our wake.
We follow her out of the shantytown, less slouched and more regal, for we are royalty.
Seeing the posters plastered on city building walls this morning is what sealed the reality of this opportunity for me. Antony and I, without even fully realizing, have come into possession of a means with which to alter a society, if only we can make the smarter moves. The catch would be to stay well hidden from the many prying eyes of city officials who would, no doubt, be displeased with the vandalism in the form of advertising posters, as well as with what we are saying to the masses.
The structure of this city is like a suspension bridge; it's got a 'too big to fail' mentality, with the support of taut cords waiting to snap. It is a suspension bridge made of secrets and unburied bones: a past that none of us know anything of. In this city, there is supposed to be no yesterday, no tomorrow, and no later today; there is only what you are doing now, what you should be doing now, and whether those two things match up. You had better hope for your own sake that they do. Anyways, I feel the bones of the city-- the living, breathing, rattling bones of a dead city... turning in its grave. And we're the ones who buried it in the first place.
I hear the latch on the shack rattling, accompanied by the muffled voice of Antony, affirming himself to me. He enters, clutching in his hands one of the posters made by Rachelle. He holds it out, grinning, commenting on how good it is in simplicity, before proudly sticking it up on the inside of the door with a pin in each corner. He stands back to observe it, and we both nod simultaneously in approval. I think he can feel the building electricity too; this is the start of something. Something real, more than either of us could have imagined.
We begin the night's broadcast with the usual words: Good evening revolutionaries and unintentional listeners, wherever you may be. Although from the amount of posters around the city, it seems we will be having many more of the latter than of the former type of listener.
About halfway through our broadcast, after receiving many confused and unaired calls asking if we were a city programming broadcast station-- we are not-- the latch rattles once more, this time with Rachelle's voice filtering through. She enters quietly, with a smile at each of us, carrying a portable radio in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. Taking a seat on the floor on top of one of the blankets, she pulls a wrapped sandwich from within the bag and listens to the remainder of the broadcast in attentive silence. We end, as always with the list of missing citizens' names and a respectful silence. Goodnight, good luck. We are Change Kings, every one of us.
Rachelle calls the ending a nice touch but says, as she stands up, that we need to step up our involvement of the listeners. She is right, of course; the citizens have blank slates for minds now, and we have the perfect means and opportunity to change that. The calls received today were all of a disconcerted nature, wondering why this is not a city-organized program. Notes for next time, I suppose. The equipment is switched off and, with thanks to Rachelle's heater and blankets, none of us are shivering anymore. She passes us each a sandwich and tosses the crumpled paper bag into a wooden crate in the corner of the shack. Jerking her head in a 'let's go' motion, she stands up to leave and we follow, always safely padlocking the door in our wake.
We follow her out of the shantytown, less slouched and more regal, for we are royalty.
♠ ♠ ♠
Another!