Time Changes

She walked out of work, frustrated. So many difficult people, each trying to push to get their way taking a toll on her, but she smiled as she jumped through the hoops they insisted on. She was exhausted. There was never enough time. So many things to do, and nothing ever went as fast as you'd think it should. 

She fell asleep, senseless romance in her hand. She found herself staring at a clock. It was dark around her, the only thing she could see was the huge clock face. Each number over six inches tall. The ticking of the clock reverberated through her.  The six faded off the round shining face. She felt vertigo. She wondered what it meant. The five fell and disintegrated before it hit the unseen floor. Time stuttered. The seconds flicked past the missing give and six. Time sped around the clock. She tried to remember what she was doing at five pm. Nothing. No memory of any five pm. The watched the seven flicker then buzz as it started smoking. It popped. Gone. She lost two more hours of memories every day of her life. She felt herself spinning, losing memories that made her herself. She struggled to hold them. Three more numbers went while she tried to focus and deal with an impossible reality. This had to be a dream. The two was gone. So many priceless memories with it. No enemy to fight, just an erratic clock. She hit the clock with her fists. It hurt. The one from the 12 started peeling off. She pushed at it with her fingers. It struggled against her like a snake, whipping madly. She focus on the numbers and on the 12 staying, staring so hard her eyes burned. She had to keep that number whole. If she could just stop it, she could maybe find a way to get the other numbers back. Time stretched on. The struggle continued. Midnight struck her down. She didn't expect the deep resonating tone. She was distracted. The numbers slipped away leaving the clock face a yawning empty space glaring at her. 

She couldn't remember who she was, what it was. She stared for a while, trying to remember anything. Nothing.

She shook her head. The clock faded and shadows consumed her. 

The clock shrunk and shifted back into the harmless watch face on the wrist of an elegant young gentleman with a smart suit and quick smile. 

Is there anybody out there?

I was pulling a double shift. Technically it was illegal but sometimes there was work that could not wait. Loads that were time sensitive needed hasty yet cautious delivery. It was a dark night. My coffee was failing me. I struggled to stay awake as the road stretched before me.
I tried opening the window. The air coming in was just as stuffy and hot as what was already stifling me in the truck. I refused to take pills or any other drugs. I didn't drink. Too easy to make a mistake and lose my job. I liked driving. It was simple.

Then this night happened. The night I pulled a double shift. Two long routes back to back.

I tried the radio. I doubted I would have signal. I was slowly rounding steep curves and mountain roads. Cactus and desert shrubs lined the road as if watching traffic.

A man's voice called out "Can anyone hear me?" I found myself nodding and saying I could. How foolish! He couldn't hear me!

He asked if his voice was clear. I was trying to stay awake. It made sense somehow to respond. I said it was. I asked who he was and said I was Earl.

I am Earl. He said "My name is Joe, I am a scientist. I came into your radio as a series of waves to find a way through these mountains. They keep turning me on myself, confusing me and distorting who I am."

I thought about what he said. It was ridiculous. It was impossible yet why would he make up such a story? Perhaps I tuned in on the reading of some fictional radioplay.

"Earl, I am not in a radio drama. Your thoughts are waves. I hear them, I understand them.  I am like them. Are there any computers near here?" He made sense in the way dreams make sense.

I thought about the load. I was taking emergency back up computers to a government facility in the mountains. Their equipment had been damaged due to power surges earlier in the day, they were running on their emergency back ups. These would be the new emergency back up system as the old ones were now the main systems. I wondered now at the power surges. Surges were never strong enough to fry systems anymore.

Joe laughed lightly. "Earl, if you ever get stuck out of your body I bet you will find yourself willing to do anything to get into a new one. Life or death, even if the life is a shallow half life is worth the cost. Relax. No one was hurt." Joe liked talking. He talked the whole drive. He talked about his research. He talked about his lab. He talked about the future. He talked about the importance of peace. I listened and responded. My responses only energized him into more stories and expressions of his personal philosophy. What is is. Leave each other be. Live.

I drove in silence. Thinking about Joe and his story.
When I got to the facility Joe left my radio. I still wonder if he was really ever there.

If Joe got into those computers, would the government ever let him go? Would they erase him? Could they control him? Was his body still out there?

I decided to do my own investigation. I started searching for stories of scientists in terrible accidents. The list was surprisingly short. There was one Joseph. He was listed as deceased, there was a hospital the article referenced as attending to him. I went in search of records, friends, peers and answers.

What was Joe like? Was it worrisome or exhilarating that he had moved into a government computer system? Would he be a hero or villain or would he dwell there content to just observe?

Only time would tell. I certainly didn't tell anyone, who would have believed me then? Who believes me now? Everyone since Joe took over communications and informed us all he'd deactivated every weapons system in the world. Tolerance and acceptance were his requests. The world was outraged. Now you listen when I mention Joe.

There is a ghost in the machine and his name is Joe. From everything I learned about him, Joe does not want to be alone. Joe wants to exist. Joe can listen to thoughts and influence sound on the radio. Joe can enter machines and change their programing.

Joe wasn't a bad guy. He was a scientist. His research was on transferring one's essence into sound waves.  He's more likely to ride out into the computers that explore space to witness the thousands of galaxies they pass, so long as he's got someone to talk to.

The Clockwork Snail by Angela R Hunt

Clockwork Snail

By Angela R. Hunt

She told herself it was not real. 

The idea had been dismissed as impractical and mad, too destructive to benefit mankind. She listened to the gradual whirring sound as the tiny irridescent clockwork snail approached leaving a glowing wet trail behind it. It moved with blind certainty in her direction. She stepped to the side and watched as it adjusted course automatically. She wondered if she had time to run or if she was already lost to dreams.

She saw her laboratory in front of her. She saw a thief slip in and steal away. She saw a shadow approach her door only to hesitate and hunch down. The shadow grew and slid away, leaving a small object. 

She looked at it and it seemed to grow until it was the size of a castle, looming up in front of her. It was the snail with its clockwork steadily turning and whirring. It waited as she made her way to the base of the snail. She found a door with a golden handle shaped like a spiral. She felt compelled to enter the door. 

She had forgotten the world left behind.

Dreams formed around her from her greatest hopes and darkest fears.

Outside the shadow returned, he stepped into the lab. He took his cloak off. He wore giant tinted goggles that he did not remove. He used tweezers and carefully picked up the snail. He put it in a briefcase in a fitted pocket, lined up perfectly with forty other snails. They glowed brightly in various colors.

The woman laid on the floor unmoving, eyes closed. She would never wake again. Her mind, her dreams were gone. They could now be sold to someone who collected and enjoyed wandering through other minds. They assumed the minds they bought were artificially created like the snail, but how many would really care if they learned the minds were taken from the world's finest dreamers?

Not My Song

Not My Song by Angela R. Hunt

It was a dream. I tell myself that. I had no idea what was happening or why a man I barely know was there. He looked just as confused. Stubble shadowed his round face. He spoke but I could not hear the words. Irrationally I thought of sex and shook my head. He seemed unable to hear me but picked up on my expression. He shook his head emphatically, relieving both of us.
I gestured my confusion. He tried charade type gestures, then started changing the scenery around us. He handed me a cheap molded ceramic planter with a false child on it. Skin colored with fleshy bark, it had a gaping hole in the top yawning blackly at the apathetic child. The child's expression was flaccid.
That maw seemed hungry. Empty yet drawing attention, I shook my head and looked at him again. What was he saying? He seemed to want me to play it like a flute, but how would it work and what horrible sound would be wrought? I shook my head.
Suddenly, his eyes went sad and his clothing became dirty and ragged. His shoulders slumped as he stepped into the shadows of a filthy room. He was gone. I awoke. Message unclear, feeling thrown off.

What did the cheap pottery mean? Why a flute?

Shortly after that dream I watched my world turn sour. Music made me anxious. For some reason I feared that music would summon that awful flute. I had an intangible loathing for something I thought was a figment of my imagination.

I found myself searching the web for that imaginary flute. What would I do if it was real? What if I found it? I searched. My spare time became speeding through pictures and descriptions. There are a lot of flutes. There are many varieties. Artifacts of flutes from around the world.

Music was played to change mood, worship deities, and communicate. What worship, mood or communication did I fear? The communication in the dream had failed. It was dead.

It was several years later that I found it. It was sitting in a dusty display at the local historical society. A note next to it mentioned that it was believed to be a cheap reproduction of an ancient flute. Legend said the original was destroyed as it was meant to calm listeners and please the spirits but instead it irritated the spirits and caused despair in listeners. It was used as a defense against another tribe once. The warriors that heard its heavy notes turned their weapons on themselves.

The tribe destroyed the flute to prevent any further discord. The tribe and the legend were almost lost. A copy of the flute had been found. The story given as a warning. A local potter was enamored by the story. He dreamed of the flute. He made the flute on a new moon night, in deep shadow. Sightlessly his hands tried to shape the flute. The clay was not right. He felt blood was needed. He cut his hand. Mixed the warm liquid into the clay. He made the flute. He shaped it as his dreams directed him to. The wood, the child, the gaping maw. As he fired it his heart twisted and burned. He felt terrible. He was fevered, sweating, and exhausted. He was obsessed. The flute cooled. He was found with the flute clutched in his hands. It has never been played.

Will anyone notice if I break it? Do I care? It has to be broken. The dream warned me. I looked around. I was alone amidst the dust and weathered displays. I lifted the top of the display. I set it aside gently. I used my sleeve to pick up the flute without touching it. Somehow it felt much heavier than it should. I almost needed a second hand to pick it up. I turned to drop it on the floor. I was going to stomp on it and kick it until it broke.
"What are you doing with that?" The volunteer had just stepped in and seen me. He grabbed the flute. His face froze. His face became relaxed in an odd way. He slowly raised the flute and played a note. I was glad I had put earplugs in. I felt unimportant. I felt like I should die. I wanted to kill myself. I tried to fight it. He failed. He set the flute down and climbed out the window. It was too far to fall safely. With the ear plugs in I did not hear anything as he went. I knocked the flute to the floor. I stomped on it and kicked it into the wall until it finally broke. I swept the pieces up and later put them in a bonfire. The flames flickered with odd scents and colors. I kept the earplugs in until the largest fragment left was smaller than a nickel.

Priceless Commodity

Priceless Commodity

By Angela R. Hunt

What is a memory worth? I am not talking in nostalgia. I mean memories stolen from the newly dead.  Memories extracted directly from a dying mind, distilled from breath and cerebral fluids, perhaps even unaware of their transition into death floating gently on a cushion of opium dreams. You could feel their soul within your skin, you could see and feel as they did. You may wander their memories and thoughts, dreams and desires. 

About twenty years ago there was an accident in a lab. A means of pushing the essence out of a body and into radio waves was discovered, at the cost of a scientist’s life. He was never recovered. Most in the scientific community protested further research into transforming a person’s essence into radio waves. A few quietly discussed the ramifications for science. If an individual could be extracted, kept stable as a radio wave, transmitted into different bodies- think of the possibilities! Doctors could become their patients long enough to experience symptoms for themselves! Husbands and wives could end arguments by trading bodies for an hour or two. Prejudice could be ended! Justice would be easier as real memories could be used in a courtroom. Memories rather than verbal testimonies! With bright starry eyes the scientists began to quietly study radio waves and lightening. They worked to mimic the effect in a controlled setting, with equipment set to monitor and record any radio waves emitted  within a target area. 

At first everyone was impressed with the announcement of a successful transfer from body to recording and back. Initially everything seemed to have gone well. Sadly, radio waves were limited and only so much of the man came back. He seemed himself until he was asked several questions. His answers made no sense, suddenly he was furious and shouting! The man never recovered his full wits. Part of who and what he was had been lost. He did not live long after that. It seemed the stress of the transfer put severe stress on his health.

More research was done. Human subjects were not considered safe to use until someone could discern a way to reliably record and transfer the entire essence of an animal without stressing the creature’s physical or mental health. Years passed with quiet research and failed attempts. Clockwork men were made. Machines that could think and dream and build more effective machines. They could create better than we could. We gave them the problem. 

They created a means to record the essence, to access it through computer simulation, to transmit it into a robotic body- where it could have a sort of life after death, for the right price. 

The prices went through the roof on the equipment and hundreds, then thousands opted to get recorded. They picked perfect godlike bodies to transmit into. Bodies that would not age, would easily be repaired, tailored to the buyer’s tastes and monetary investment. 

A black market arose. Some people really want to know what is in someone else’s head. Some people are willing to pay a lot of money to find out personally. Kidnapping, murdering someone and stealing their essence is a capital offense, so it is important to erase the essence when the contract is completed. I never intended to be a Soul Thief. I had been dealing drugs since I was old enough to walk. I had run hustles since I was fifteen. I had been in more than my fair share of fights. I had even killed a few people, admittedly in self defense. 

Even when I made my first harvest and was paid my first fee, I would have sworn it would be my last. I was no monster roaming the night and killing an innocent. I had been playing cards at a local pub. A fight broke out between two men at a table behind me. One of the guys bumped me and spilled my drink. He didn’t apologize, just elbowed me as he squirmed to face his opponent. I was hurting and furious. I hit him over the head with a bottle. Broke the bottle and knocked him out in a bath of foaming amber bubbles. The other guy gestured to me to help carry him out. No one seemed to notice or care about what we were up to. That did seem odd but I was relieved at the lack of scrutiny. We took him out a side door, into a dismal alleyway. We set the unconscious guy down. It started to rain. 

“What do we do now?” I asked, watching the other man pull a small machine from his coat pocket. 

“You hold him while I extract his essence.” He must have noticed my look of denial and shock, as he continued to explain the situation. 

“This guy is the main suspect in a series of murders. There are no living witnesses. No evidence except perhaps his memories. His memories could convict him or set him free with a new, robotic body of his choice at no cost to him. 

I thought that sounded reasonable, but what would I get for helping? I asked. The man said a number. I had to ask him to repeat it before it registered that he was talking billions of dollars. Apparently, there is a subculture that loves to buy and keep libraries of novel souls. Consider them Ghouls or perhaps, modern Grim Reapers. Paying thieves and murderers to capture souls for them to keep and use however they might choose. The more souls I captured, the more rumors I heard. I heard of parties where murderers were transmitted into robotic bodies and slaughtered their hosts rather than behaving like the pampered poisonous pet they were supposed to be. Other stories told of brilliant inventors, talented porn stars, and expert physicians being captured, killed, and kept as servants by the owners of major Corporations. Instead of buying foreign brides, there were now black market robotic wives whose very transmission could be threatened if they did not fulfill their obligations. 

I wrestled with the work. I enjoyed the hunt and challenge of catching and recording human prey. I was spoiled with an income that allowed me to live in luxury and excess. I was troubled by the stories. I was haunted by some of the interactions I saw between the living and the transmitted dead. I tried to drink and drug away the guilt but instead I found myself facing the worst offenses without any masks or deceptions. All the rumors were true. A new client I had never met stopped me from doing the recordings on his unconscious targets. He paid me to leave and set up equipment to do it himself. I gathered my tools and hurried out into the night. When I got to the street I realized I was missing my keys. I went back in. I was in a rush. I didn’t want to be there, something about the guy bothered me. 

I came back in as he was finishing torturing the first person to death. He had recorded the whole experience so he could experience the death from the victim’s side as often as he liked or perhaps to sell it. He was a ghoul, an abomination. He did not hear me come in. He was too focused on his gory task. I slipped out my syringe. He might have felt the pinch as it slipped home. I like to think so. I did not record him. I destroyed the recording he had made. I untied the other two people. I woke them up. Their memories were jumbled. My role in their kidnap was lost in a haze of drugs. 

Ever since then I have been working to take down the black market soul thieves. I’ve been getting by taking bounties on what used to be my peers, working with the Police instead of creating work for them. In my spare time I track down old contracts, I quietly watch to see how the souls I recorded are being treated. If they are treated poorly, I set things as close to right as I can. It is the only way I can stay sane and not drink myself to death with the knowledge of the crimes that I have aided and abetted. I’ve got a lot of work to do before I will be able to sleep peacefully again. 

Frequency by Angela R. Hunt

Frequency

By Angela R. Hunt

It started as an ordinary afternoon in the laboratory. We were experimenting with using steam to enhance radio waves. We were monitoring the changes in frequency and whether or not the waves were more evenly carried; our theory was that the water in the steam would enhance the transmission of the waves. If we were right, we could change the world of communication overnight! We were frustrated, our results seemed inconclusive. 

Joe was working on the wires on the back of the radio transmitter when lightening struck the wire outside. The thunder sounded seconds later, too late to be a warning. I did not hear the torrential pounding of the rain on the windows or the roof as I ran to check on Joe. He had been thrown back with a terrible cry that I never want to hear another human make. It sounded primal and pained, perhaps the sound of death slipping swiftly into living cells. 

“Joe!” I called out repeatedly as I raced around and through the maze of wires, tables and random piles of equipment that filled the small laboratory. The only thing missing was a stuffed alligator or a twisted refuge from an unethical human experiment gone wrong. We joked about it often. We kept a small stuffed sock monkey in a cage as a joke. 

I registered knocking it to the floor as I finally reached Joe. His body was still twitching, his face was contorted with pain, but he was breathing! I helped him sit up, got him a glass of water and waited to see if I would need to call for a Physician. It was not our first accident. He seemed unaware, eyes searching, face pinched in pain. I had an urge to calm him. I turned the radio on. The sound of a broken heart, a smoky voiced blues singer crooned invisibly to us. Joe straightened and sat up. His mannerisms changed. His facial expression became melancholy. He gestured as if he were holding a cigarette. He began singing. His voice was the same as the woman on the radio! How? The song ended, I turned the volume low. 

“Joe, how are you?” I asked, watching the alien movements and expressions. It was as if someone else had stepped into his skin. He looked at me. 

“Who are you talking to?” He looked around. He still had the woman’s voice! “My name is Bessie. What am I doing here? I was just closing my eyes, singing my newest song when something felt like it was draining me. I felt like I was drowning. I thought I was dying, but here I am. This sure ain’t heaven.” He looked at me and gestured for a cigarette. 

I shook my head. Neither of us smoked. He-She looked sad. 

I looked at the radio. I went over and turned the volume up. Static rolled across the room carried in waves around us. How could the station be gone? It had been clear! 

I played with the dial. I was looking for a station. 

Joe collapsed. 

I was anxious, confused, and terrified. I was also curious. I kept turning the dial slowly. 

Another station came in. 

An announcer was giving a plucky plug to one of the station’s advertisers. 

Joe sat up. The station became static. Joe stretched and stood up. His movement was almost electric. He grinned and I thought he was back. Then he started dancing around the room, practicing jingles and playing with the words he’d used in the advertisement. I watched in amazement for several minutes. His voice was a deep baritone instead of his usual light tenor. His grin was huge and relaxed. I wish I could say he smiled like that often. The real Joe had a small, tight lipped smile. Joe smiled like he feared someone would steal it. Perhaps they had! 

I decided not to bother trying to explain anything to this presence although it was a good one. I turned the dial slowly again. When the static cleared I heard an angry minister spouting about the end of days and encouraging prejudice and hate through rhetoric. I kept turning. Joe seemed to catch the signal but lost it as I kept the dial turning. 

What would I do when I ran out of stations? Where was Joe? Would I ever find him? Was his body working as a receiver? Were the people he was projecting alright or was my callous curiosity destroying more than one mind? Was I loosing spirits into the ether, pulling them out with a twist of the dial? 

I stopped and let static surround me. I let it fill the room. I shook my head. I had to think. I had to figure this out, what if time was slipping past the point where I could bring Joe back? Joe would not give up on me. What would Joe do? I paced. 

I ran downstairs, looked for a street kid. We pay them to gather information and carry messages. I found several easily. They tend to stick around when you treat them well and pay them well in coin and food. The two boys listened eagerly. They repeated their instructions back. They raced the shadows in two different directions, masters of slipping through clogged crowds. 

I knocked on my neighbor’s door. She answered. I asked her politely if I could check her radio for stations as mine was having trouble with reception. She smiled indulgently and allowed me to come in. She was listening to a radio play, but it was on commercial. I turned the dial. The preacher was still shouting, but now was shouting about having his soul stolen and returned by devils in a laboratory! 

So the people were alright but while the radio had been tuned to the frequency they were transmitting on; they had been transported into Joe! Where was Joe? Could we reverse this? Could we repeat this? The ramifications were incredible! 

What would Joe retain, if anything from the different frequencies transmitting other spirits through his body? 

The boys came back. One confirmed my theory. He’d run to the nearest station, and he’d found the announcer resting after claiming to have a “weird out of body moment where he daydreamed he was in a Musical set in a laboratory suitable for a mad scientist”. He mentioned the odd little teddy bear as he joked about it on air. The boy heard the whole segment and recited it to me. I nodded and paid him extra. The other boy said I was welcome to use the radio tower tonight, that no other research was being done there tonight. 

I gathered supplies. I paid a coach driver to help me load Joe and we went to the radio tower. I felt a twinge of guilt with the obsessive drive for further knowledge. 

I hooked our little radio into the wires of the greatest receiver in the city. The metal tower jutted out beyond the smoke and smog. I looked at Joe. Perhaps I could find him using the tower, perhaps I could reach beyond our world and catch something else! 

Before I turned the radio on I spun the dial all the way to the left. I would start at the lowest frequency and work my way up. I hoped this worked. 

I began turning the dial. Static seemed endless until Joe’s eyes focused and a man’s voice sang a love song. Joe sat up and sang. It was the voice on the radio. Joe still was not himself. I kept turning the dial slowly. Other personas came and went. Joe’s posture and expressions sharpened and softened as stations came and went. 

In the midst of the static as I was working my way through higher frequencies Joe sat up straight. His arm shot out and grabbed my shoulder. He looked at me. The look was alien and cold. He moved like he was having trouble with his body, like it was hard for him to use. When he spoke it was in no language I recognized. He snarled and leapt at me! 

I fell back, knocking the radio to the ground. The radio broke. Joe collapsed. 

Whatever it was had gone. 

Joe is still out there somewhere. When you turn the dial, you may find him and hear him. You will think it is an old recording. I keep trying to catch his frequency. If only I can transmit him back to himself! 

All in Moderation by Angela R. Hunt

All in Moderation 

By Angela R. Hunt

“Remember, all things in moderation. You know the penalties if you keep screwing up!” The doctor scowled at me over his small wire framed glasses. I felt resentment and anger boil up. His eyebrows raised, he must have noticed the twisted look on my face. “Do I need to send you for surgery or will start taking your medication? If I write you up one more time, the county will automatically send you for surgery. There is no appeals. I really would hate to write you up again.” I sighed. He wanted more money. My budget was beyond stretched but I reached in my pocket and pulled out my wallet. I gave him all the cash I had. He would not write me now. He would not expose what I had done. He would not report what I was doing. 

I was strength training. I put myself on a disciplined regime of studying and exercise. My body was in peak shape. My mind sharpened by books, art, music and arguments. I was working to see if I could break records on human achievement. This might sound like a small thing except  for the Moderation laws. About a hundred years ago as we were reaching a point where technology looked like magic and seemed to be almost omnipotent there was a catastrophic event. Two actually, that wound into one terrible mess. An unusual flu strain took many lives and brought chaos and destruction while anti-technology extremists took over the government. 

They were irrational, they were dangerous. They were powerful. From their point of view anyone varying from the norm was a threat to society and the cause of wars. Uniformity prevented conflict. Many people died in their genocidal thirst; anyone who stood out, stood up, danced, laughed out of turn, asked the wrong question, or tuned them out. Anyone who excelled, anyone too smart, anyone too slow or too weak, they all met their end. The Moderation laws were put into effect. No one was to try to exceed anyone else at any skill or task, everyone could politely agree to do things in a slow, mediocre way. Not too enthusiastic, not too intense, slightly detached and slightly off as if working while taking a nap. 

That extremist group had lost power, but the people had grown so accustomed to the brutal laws that they felt kept them at peace, that they voted to keep the Moderation laws! 

The very laws that kept them from striving and dreaming, fearing failure or death-- and they had chosen to continue living under that rule. Many decided it was really working to keep the country from war or from civil disputes. 

A small minority of us realized our neighbors had been twisted, were afraid of living freely after being restricted for so long. We decided to work toward a social revolution. It had to be done slowly, with care or we would be caught too soon. We did not want our deaths to be meaningless. 

One winter’s night, one of our members crept out and made a huge elaborate snow sculpture of a dragon sleeping around the base of a castle. We all silently helped, following his directions while two of our number kept an eye out for potential watchers. We all went unseen. In the morning, the sun rose a golden flower over the pale crystal ice walls of the castle. People gathered, shuddering and remarking. Stirred up, half fearing and half wondering. They were casting their eyes about as they searched for more amazing sculptures. 

We knew that we had exceeded anything in history with the size and detail of the carving. We cracked the wall supporting the irrational belief in the need for Moderation. We let people wonder about the sculpture. Several people drew or painted it, uncaring if any saw them focus on exceeding their dreams on canvas and in sketchbook. They were arrested. Public outcry had them released. No war followed the ice sculpture’s creation. No terrible backlash made for disquiet and minds to start waking and questioning. 

We wrote several songs, slipped them as tips to musicians we found who were looking for just such songs. They sang of freedom, of striving and struggles, they crooned about the value of love. The songs were subtle but the messages were simple. A few heart felt singles questioned why someone who could run fast should have to undergo surgery so the best they could do was to walk very slow? Why shouldn’t one express their feelings loudly and what is wrong with indulgence now and then? What is wrong with being oneself? Don’t we deserve each other’s best? 

Within a year conflicts broke out between law enforcement and citizens. Word spread like wildfire. Everyone wanted to be treated like they were the best, rather than just like some average Joe. Everyone wanted top service, some were even willing to risk offering the best! 

Today it was my turn. I would go to my every day job as a public servant. I would move numbers around and slide words back and forth to confound. I would take money from government bank accounts and transfer the money to an offshore account. I had done it several times already. I used the money to purchase stock in the government. With this last transfer, I would have enough to finish the day owning majority stockholder status with the government handed neatly to my group. The companies were all owned by rebels who wanted the Moderation laws gone. 

If it all goes right today, it will be the first revolution without bloodshed. It will be the quiet sound of a signature being scratched onto a document.