Spring2023

Buzz!
I roll over towards my bedside table, and lazily reach for my phone to check the notification.
AFL APP: Young-gun Docker learns fate at tribunal (1 minute ago).
Damn it – Woken prematurely once again by technology’s favourite weapon, social media. Luckily, the vibration is only enough to force me into reluctantly rolling over onto my right side, but not enough to fully wake me up.
Buzz!
NEWS APP: North Korea fires missile into Atlantic Ocean claiming it was a test launch.
Buzz!
PREMIER LEAGUE APP: Manchester City are champions once again.
Buzz!
FACEBOOK: Morning Sam, you have five new friend suggestions.
Morning? – Yeh it is the morning you stupid app. “Hey Siri, why am I getting all these notifications at 4:30AM?”
Siri: “Your Do Not Disturb has not yet been activated. You activate it in settings, underneath the notification’s tab.”
I must have forgotten to put my phone on Do Not Disturb last night. Well, now I’m wide awake so I might as well do something before school. I open my phone to check the weather to see if it’s worth going for a surf to cheer me up and get away from my phone. I swipe up and enter my passcode.
4                                              8                                              9                                              2
Ding!
COMM BANK: You have received a payment.
Ding!
MESSAGES Mum: You better not have forgotten to send Granny a message for her birthday? (7 hours)
Ding!
MESSAGES Jim: Have you gotten me on the list for that party yet? (7 hours)
Ding!
REMINDER 10:00pm: Submit Geography assignment.
A continuous chain of notifications escaping the digital world and brutally crawling into my mind. The overwhelming sense of urgency to check my phone is starting to make me feel anxious. An incessant bombardment of messages, news, and updates all constantly reminding me of their presence in my mind. The tempting urge to reply to ‘one last message’ forges an everlasting cyber cycle.

Meanwhile I can hear rain splattering onto the ground and wild gusts of wind howling through every crack in the house. Could the weather be any worse? Wait, the weather – that’s why I checked my phone in the first place, I completely forgot…
“Hey, Siri, what’s the swell and weather forecast for Trigg Beach this morning?”
Siri: “The swell for Tuesday the 6^th of June is 4 metres, the wind is 40 knots and there’s a 95% chance of rain.” Well, it looks like a surf is out of the question, so unfortunately there isn’t going to be any respite from this constant pinging of my phone.

Great, I can’t get back to sleep and I’m facing a relentless tidal wave of reminders, breaking news, Snapchat, Facebook, and more reminders. I forgot to wish Granny a happy birthday. I still need to get Jim on the list for the party tomorrow. And I didn’t submit my Geography assignment on time. I feel my stress levels rising as notification after notification keeps on appearing. Why is everything against me? Even technology. I ditch my phone onto the floor and slump my forehead into my pillow. I don’t know what to do. I’m drowning in notifications with no end in sight.

Suddenly there’s a flash of brilliance followed by an almighty crack. Electrifying lightning zips across the early morning sky. Iridescent light penetrates through my curtains and illuminates my room.
Bang! A huge, heavy branch falls on the roof and shakes the entire house. Simultaneously the lights go out and suddenly it’s pitch black. There’s silence all around. The occasional flash briefly lights up my room, always followed by a huge clap of thunder. I pick up my phone off the floor and unlock it.

NO SIGNAL

The local cellular tower must have been struck and the antenna on top of the house has probably been broken by that branch and the violent gusts of wind. My immediate reaction to the thought of losing signal is panic followed by rising anger. But after a few minutes of listening to the thunder crack, with no other disturbances, a surprising sense of calm washes over me. I actually start to relax. Relieved that there’s no longer the constant notification reminding me to do something, relieved that for once no one can contact me, relieved that my phone is no longer listening to me.

NO SIGNAL

I gently close my eye lids until they are slightly touching, but with no tension. Then I sink into my mattress and snuggle up with my doona. My mind is finally in a place of peace and privacy. I feel as though for the first time in what seems like an eternity, my brain can rest and recharge in peace. No Siri. No blue light. No ring. No buzz.

Everything is dark. And silent – the thunder has stopped. Nothing but the sweet sound of heavy rain on the tin roof.

Finally, it clicks; the technological world can wait, there’s nothing like living in the present…

Ding!
Oh no…
Not Another Notification.

From the moment babies’ hazy eyes pry open, they demand one thing and one thing only, their mum. And this mummy’s boy was no different. Their bond was beyond DNA. When life had its moments, it was never his dad, always his mum. She held his hand on his first steps, one by one, until he could walk. She held his hand as she taught him the piano, pressing the keys, one by one, until he could play. And he would not sleep until she tucked him in with the nightly tradition, they called ‘butterflies’. She would press her face up against his and gently brush her eyelashes against his cheek, followed by an array of giggles.

He always remembered the way his mum spoke about her home, four hours south of the city. She would reminisce endlessly, and the little boy would listen, just content in her soothing song. Life was always simpler in nature, she would say. That was her home. But the little boy wasn’t drawn to the outside like his mum was. He hated the tickle of the rain or brush of the grass blades on his tippy toes.

As an only child, she would give every ounce of energy to make him feel special. And a smile on her little boy’s face made her heart sing, and that was enough.

But it all changed on November 13, 2017. He would always remember that day; it was two weeks before his 13^thbirthday. That morning they had gotten into an argument about chores or something; it didn’t matter. As she shot out the door for work, she called out, “Goodbye, I love you!”

But in his frustration, he couldn’t bring himself to say it back, and the door clicked shut.

It was the usual Friday bustle down the highway that afternoon, and his mum was almost home. But nothing could have prepared her for the careening truck. Nothing could have prepared her for the impact. The way her 2012 KIA compressed and cracked like a steel can. Nothing could have prepared him for the phone call, the news, the hang up, the silence. He had never said ‘I love you’ back. There was none of their ‘butterflies’ that night.

Each day his stomach churned. He bled with denial and guilt and fear. Bit by bit every thought, every photo of her sent cold ripples within and made him shake uncontrollably, slowly rotting his core. It made him cold, weak, and shrivelled. He sat her urn on the mantlepiece, hoping her spirit that in staying with him, could guide him through.

Love is like the swift, gentle movement of a current, he thought. You can laugh, splash, and lay on your back as it slowly drifts you peacefully. But sometimes, love can deceive you, tug and rip and pull you down the stream of the abyss at any turn, where you can’t touch the bottom. And the little boy within him was not prepared for this loss. Every faded memory of her seemed to slowly suck him below. It drowned him, and he needed air soon.

Five years later, and still the urn lay patiently on the mantlepiece. The little boy was no little boy anymore, but he could not bring himself to scatter her ashes. But he hated how she was confined to a box, trapped. He needed to get her home, set her free.

So, he went four hours south, and the car rattled along the highway back to her home. That afternoon, he picked a spot in a grove five minutes from the holiday house. It was time. But he couldn’t and instead let his hands navigate the grooves of the urn to pass the time. How could he go without her presence next to him? Suddenly, he felt the earth pause for a second, and encourage him. He loosened the urn and set her free. Her ashes were picked up, and he watched them dance and glisten in the breeze. He saw her ashes flood to everywhere in the grove. They fled to the grass and the trees and the hills and the creeks. She was now everywhere, he thought.

That afternoon, he found her dainty silhouette in the clouds. As he ventured further, the oak towered over him seemed to swallow him up, cocoon him, just like his mum. He found her sanctuary in the stars that seemed to wink back at him.

But perhaps most importantly, he didn’t find her. He had found his air, and it was the core of his means to live. And it filled his lungs like a full belly. He realised the air he needed was all around him every day. It was in the whistling creek, the lush moss that cloaked the spotted stones. It was in the ocean that tickled the sandbank, back and forth, back, and forth. That night, he felt nature carefully lay him down and tuck him in.

The next morning his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the coming dawn. As the sunrise ticked over the timeless clock of the horizon, and amidst the slow burst of tinted gold haze in the East, he was struck by something. And it hit him. He no longer needed his mum’s touch anymore, to guide him beyond the wreckage of his own mind. He just needed peace, his air. And he had found it.

He inhaled, he exhaled, and that was enough.

A malaise filled the air, reaching obelisks darkening with the rolling edge of dusk. The wave of warm stagnant wind filled the noses of tent dwellers and mice and hit like a speeding truck. After the sun set there was no more light. The politicians saw no glistening night life to illuminate, and so they preferred to mask it in shadow. But scuttering around backstreets and under bridges, oh, there was life. Clinging like gum to the bottom of a shoe in the utopic city. Even the most dignified would find themselves becoming like the cockroaches around them, like the cockroaches among them. Slippery scavengers, hiding from the pursuit of the night police on duty, scattering when torchlight shone on their newly acquired exoskeleton.

Up in the high rises there was no less filth, vermin paying utilities. Their curtains stayed drawn in the day, hiding from the sun as they sucked life away. They built buildings higher and higher, thinking they were ascending godward like a new Babel. The tent dwellers saw what they were doing. Running. Fleeing. Tearing themselves from the victimised and disenfranchised.

Children were an unfortunately common occurrence down below, found under tarps and in gutters. Lost children. Forgotten children. The children were raised by the cockroaches, learning their ABCs on billboards and glowing signs. Engorged by the advertising of products only available in skip bins. Their cries and wails caught by no ears before being swallowed by the cold. The roach kids never had a chance. One in a hundred was ever seen. One in a million made it to adulthood. One in a billion was ever able to make it into the lobby. All of them a ‘damaged good’. Cheapened product just to get the sky-scalpers high, commodified heartache and sealed futures.

Amongst the tarps and the tents, chills rolled through. Scrapping for covers, the best blanket to the hardest to hurt, the coveted glossy magazine. One tough young lad could be found here and there, trudging through grime and filth to endure wind and rain. Black hair unkempt and oily, kept deliberately long to warm his head and ears. He didn’t have a name as far as most were concerned, but everyone seemed to call him something different. It worked for the boy, ‘Harder to track down,’ he thought. On warm nights he would search for places high up, climbing railings and windowsills to escape the dank miasma of street level. His limbs were spindly and frail, like a spider posed in the corner of a room, and his clothes were stretched and torn to tatters. On cold nights he wouldn’t often get covers, he learned to entrap himself under tight ledges or near the warm ventilation outlets of the high rises. The boy worked where he could, an odd job here, a loose end there. Rarely for money, and that money was never kept long. A next meal was always the boy’s first thought, no time for warm clothes or other luxuries. ‘Had the cards fallen his way, he’d work himself to the highest floor of the tallest building in the whole retched city,’ he told himself. Claw, tooth and nail, to wherever he could go. But the cards didn’t fall for him, as they rarely did, playing with a stacked deck and an open hand.

The high-rises traded something. A rich life for lifetime riches. The children among the clouds grew up safe and sanitised, a dummy in their gob before even a sound was made. The cold was only in books about weather, warm rooms replacing warm embraces. They grew up envious of the adventure of the streets, tantalised by the idea of a life less restrained, attracted to the concept but ill-equipped to survive the reality. So, they followed the path safely travelled: safe job, safe apartment, safe cot for a safe child. The new Babylonians left their kin to plastic kinder gardens.
“Go have fun,” they would all say, “Just let Mummy and Daddy work.”
The children were not allowed to tussle or tumble; any rough play was reprimanded. Harsh synthetic grass left burns and hard corners scared the kids back into their warm rooms.

There was another young boy here. Short black hair meticulously groomed, slicked back with expensive wax every morning. His arms and legs long but swaddled in a wrapping of wobbly fat. The boy wanted all the spoils of the world but couldn’t bring himself to get anything that wasn’t within arm’s reach. The boy had not felt a cold night in his life. He kicked and struggled with himself over one of his many blankets, and his air was scented with a new candle every other day. The boy did not work, not really. He had a job his father had given him, qualified for with an education his mother had paid to get. He lived a safe small life, creating a safe small family, with safe chubby children, whom he ignored to attend his job. He played on from the same stacked deck his parents had had, playing on with the same winning hand from his father.”
Gambling nothing, winning more, losing what matters.

While that happened repeatedly, the towers grew taller and their shadows grew longer and the rats of Babel found new ways to exploit and manipulate, innovating with the creativity of children. Finding new ways to shuffle the deck to put whatever they wanted right where they wanted it. New ways to draw even more from the streets, draw from it until not even the morning dew had the gall to stay around too long. Separating themselves further from their crimes and their tragedies.

5:00am – November 30^th – 2002

The buzz of an alarm clock woke Jozef from his retirement. It was still dark outside he noticed, drawing apart the frail curtains on the window in the apartment unit. Facing him, like a mirror, was the sight of another apartment room, identical in size, shape, colour and feel. One window – obscured by transparent curtains, 34^th floor, stained exterior, rusted balcony. Jozef prided himself on his cleanliness, ensuring that the apartment was always tidy and well-kept in his image, and that every piece of clothing, kitchen appliance, and item of furniture was just the way he liked it. He began his morning routine.

5:30am

Jozef shifted the bolt on the front door, exiting the single room and pulling the door shut hard behind him as the hinges on the door were not as smooth as they once were. Reaching his ears was the drone of fluorescent tube lights, casting an artificial glow that hardly reached the carpet in front of him and flickered on and off repeatedly. As he made his way down the hall, cautious not to ruin his only pair of work shoes on the wet patches of carpet, Jozef noticed a familiar face on the posters on the wall, the face of the Emperor for Prussia – Frederick Kaiser IV, looking proudly into the distance through a sea of red. In bold black text he read:

ONE SONG – ONE EMPIRE – ONE PEOPLE
Glory for Prussia
Glory for her people

“Good morning, Sir,” said a cold and raspy voice, causing Jozef to wrench his eyes away from the vibrant poster. Behind him stood an old frail lady, whose body was twisted and bent like that of a bonsai tree.
“Good morning,” he replied simply to the cleaning lady. In all his years living in the building, Jozef had never asked the lady for her name, nor her for his. ‘She is just the cleaner,’ he thought to himself, ‘and I am just a resident.’ On that thought, he left without saying goodbye, and began his walk to the station.

5:50am

Block following block, street after street, Jozef walked efficiently through the snow and downtown Königsberg, making his way to the underground metro. As he descended the stairs, he entered the dirty white tiled tunnel that was the train station and joined the queue of people waiting before the city police. The checkpoint was guarded heavily by both the metro police and the counterterrorism unit called the ‘Befólgen’ but known by Jozef and most people as the ‘Eagles’ – named after the black Prussian Eagle displayed on their chest plates. The Eagles wore full black and red attire, armour plating on their shoulders and chest, and held large machine guns that were aimed at any citizens who refused to comply with their demands. The division’s purpose was to: re-educate western sympathisers or those who were found to be consuming western media, redirect citizens attempting to visit any country other than the glorious nation, and detain anyone who opposed the government or undermined the Emperor’s legitimacy and rule over the Prussian Empire. Jozef continued to wait in line, waiting anxiously for his turn to board the train and begin his day at work.

6:00am

As if a switch had been flicked on, the city was alive with sound. Loudspeakers perched on support beams in the station, and all throughout the inner city, began to awaken. The voice of their emperor spoke proudly: “Our great nation has never been stronger!”… “Our police keep us safe,”… “Report any suspicious actions to our Befólgen,”… “Support our nation – pay your taxes.”
The day had started.

6:05am

The line in front of Jozef shortened, and he finally reached the front.
“Area of residence?” asked the officer in the small glass room in front of him.
Jozef responded, “Sector 14, Street 6, Apartment 313.”
“Reason for travel?”
“Work in the city.”
“Name and age?”
“Jozef Bauer, 32 years.”
The officer paused for a moment then looked quickly up from his papers, staring intensely at Jozef through the window. He turned to one of the Eagles behind him and nodded slightly, with the other man nodding in return and then speaking into the radio on his breast. The man was too far away, however, for Jozef to hear.
The officer returned his attention to his desk, stamped Jozef’s transport book and handed it back to him. There was a loud buzzing sound and Jozef passed through the steel gate, boarding the train as quickly as possible. The emperor’s voice continued on loop through the speakers on the train the entire way to the inner city: “Those who undermine our Nation will be punished!”… “Western terrorists shall not destroy our democracy!”… “Work for our country and we shall thrive.”

8:00pm

Jozef had finished work for the day, reaching the subway yet again. Arriving at the checkpoint swiftly as there was no line this late in the day, Jozef handed the guard his book and waited for questioning. But no questions came this time. After a short while Jozef coughed up some words.
“Sector 14, Stree-” he was cut off.
“Yes, yes, you may pass.” The guard was looking at him, as if he knew something, Jozef thought. He turned and looked at the Eagles lining the checkpoint, all had their fingers caressing the trigger on their guns. Jozef dropped his head, passing through the gate quickly and leaving his pass behind, eager to reach the apartment.

8:30pm

Moonlight lit the sidewalk on Jozef’s return walk, barely breaking the thick clouds which loomed over the concrete jungle, its consistency broken only by the bright red posters which littered bus ports, streetlights, and buildings alike. “Glory for Prussia. Glory for her people.” With a final message and a static click, the speakers were shut off, lying dormant but ready for another day. All was silent save for a slight wind and Jozef’s boots on the snow.

9:00pm

Entering the building on Street 6, Jozef climbed the 34 flights of stairs and entered the hallway. As he walked past another poster, he noticed the emperor staring down at him, right into his soul and causing him to feel uneasy. The cleaning lady was nowhere to be seen, which made Jozef worry as she should be cleaning the hallway. The lights were bright and unfaltering, the carpet clean and dry. As he reached the front door to apartment 313, he unlocked it with a key and the door swung open, smoothly as if brand new. Jozef was on edge, his teeth set and the hairs on his neck stiff. There was a new smell which invaded his nose, the curtains were drawn closed, and his clothes, kitchen appliances, and furniture were off, not in his image, not perfect.
At that moment Jozef knew, his life would never be the same.

Pitter Patter …… Pitter Patter ……. Pitter Patter

 The cold invades me. I pull my trench coat tight around me; it fails to protect me from the elements of Berlin. The dark clouds on the horizon foretell of heavier rains to come, an eternity of water, stuck in a city and country engulfed in an impenetrable veil of darkness. Never does the gloom lift, darkness stop, never has there been anyone alive in Germany since His ascension. Sure, building lights are on, there are beings in the street, and shops are still open, but all you can hear is the constant rainfall, the squelch of boots in puddles and the distant screams of those unlucky enough to attract His wrath. The Regime had done its job; there are no longer people in Berlin, no friends talking in the street, no joy of children playing, only bodies, human shells, people barely existing under the constant fear of Him and his Tartarian Regime. The Storm was starting to converge on the city, the Hadean curtain of darkness ever-present. Something must change.

Pitter Patter ……. Pitter Patter ……. Pitter Patter

I pull my coat closer, and my fedora over my eyes as I continue down my path passing Stormtroopers engaged in their routine acts of violence. Who knew who was under them? Whose bones they are crunching under the force of their fists? Whose face wouldn’t be a face anymore? It didn’t matter who it was, nobody would interfere; it could’ve been your neighbour, your uncle, even your mother; you wouldn’t interfere. Nobody really cared anymore. The Regime has defined the price of caring, too high for anybody to pay. Friends no longer trusted friends, family no longer talked to family; it was too risky. The Gestapo was a constant cancer on society. The eternal darkness is deepening. The demonic Stormfront a blanket on the horizon, approaching as the wind deafens the people of Germany. Something must be done.

Pitter-Patter … Pitter-Patter … Pitter–Patter

His face is at every corner, at every junction, on every wall; I will never forget Him, what He looked like, what He can do, what He will do. His black toothbrush moustache, and fiendish brown undercut framing his glassy blue eyes, portraying His evil to me and only me. The masses see him as the hero saving Germany, yet He is the one who is killing her, her people, her ideals, and her freedoms. He who claims that we must escape the terrors of socialism, only provides a different devil, giving Germany to the terrors of fascism. His ‘Heroism’ is always reinforced through the Völkiischer Beobatcher and their propaganda:

ANSCHLUSS WITH AUSTRIA! GLORY FOR THE THIRD REICH! VICTORY FOR HITLER! PRAISE THE FUHRER, OUR LORD AND SAVIOUR!

Nobody could escape it, this overwhelming rhetoric. We are suffocating in the Regime’s lies. Goebbels commands us, the master puppeteer controls all, pulling our strings, holding us through his words, powerless to His desires, His dominance. The clouds advance, the rainfall hastens, and the winds howl. I can feel my movements morphing with the climate, movements becoming erratic, pace quickening in tempo with the storm’s beat.  The shroud of Satan, now smothering the street in darkness. Something must be fixed.

Pitter-Patter-Pitter-Patter-Pitter-Patter

No opposition was safe; people try, who wouldn’t? Facing oppression and terror people have two options, to fight or to submit. Those fighting were lucky if they die, for if they survive, they face a fate worse than death. Taking them to camps burdening them in chains, with only torture, work, death awaiting them. Their families, their friends, everybody they knew, stolen, taken, destroyed. These people are made examples of society watching as they are reduced to little more than lessons, teaching German society of our place under Him. I still hear the screams of a prisoner I had seen years ago, can still picture his face whenever I close my eyes, his soundless scream, the madness in his eyes as he breaks under the tools of his torturer. Eventually even those with the greatest wills broke. Nobody fights anymore. What could anyone do against a force of nature like Him, against the darkness, the storm, His evil? The darkness blinds me enveloping me in its cold embrace. The rain falls at forty-five-degree angles, now louder than the winds, although all I can hear are distant screams. The infernal clouds approach, always approaching, getting closer and closer. Who is going to be different? Everything is going to change.

 Thrum-Drum …  Thrum-Drum … Thrum-Drum

The last thing I see is that outrageous flag, with the abomination of a cross on it, each leg mutilated at a ninety-degree angle in a clockwise direction. His symbol, the one always on His arms, on His flags. A metaphor for His devilish regime, the way He has defaced such a beautiful religious symbol much like He destroys my beautiful country. How can I survive in a regime like this? How can no one fight against the regime? There must be a solution. I can’t breathe. The demoniac darkness strangles me. I am choking. My heart beats in my ears, in rhythm with the raging tempest. I can’t take it. My mind is failing me. All I can see is His face. Outrage overwhelming. I am going to do something.

Thrum-Drum-Thrum-Drum CRACK – BOOM – Thrum-Drum

 If not me, then who?

Crack – BOOM

Bang!
Bang!
Bang!

22-YEAR-OLD COMMUNIST EXTREMIST SHOT DEAD IN BERLIN AFTER VIOLENT TERRORIST ATTACK KILLING 25 IN THE REICHSTAG 

The 22-year-old extremist was shot dead by NAZI Stormtrooper’s after he stormed the Reichstag killing 25 NAZI party members. It is believed he was after the Great Fuhrer in his insane communist rampage. Wearing a trench coat and fedora the 22-year-old was spotted walking just an hour earlier by citizens and stormtroopers on the Platz der Republik. Fearing His and the Third Reich’s safety, the Fuhrer has installed a new set of emergency laws (detailed in full on page six) allowing the arrest of all members of the public regardless of evidence. This event serves as lesson to the German people reinforcing the price of opposing the Third Reich. The Völkiischer Beobatcher reminds, one and all, to PRAISE THE FUHRER, OUR LORD AND SAVIOUR.

It was a clear cold day in October and the last leaves had fallen. Harold Pantell, his body covered with a thick woollen jacket to keep himself warm, disembarked from his motorcycle and swiftly entered Surry Hall, though not quickly enough to prevent a gust of icy wind from entering along with him. He was greeted immediately by the housekeeper, Nester, who offered him a brandy before he went upstairs to see his long-time friend, the Lord of Oxfordshire, Edward Walden.   “Good day, Eddie.”
“Hello Pantell, my old friend, good to see you!” Walden exclaimed rising from his chair, shaking his hand.
“How have things been? Keeping up with Parafiroie tour?” Edward asked.
“I sure have; been listening to her every performance over the radio. I tell you there’s nothing like a ride in the country.”
“Ha-ha, you mean Antarctica. I don’t want to leave the house this time of year. You freeze to death as soon as you step outside.”

The clock strikes eight. “Hmm … the News should be on.”
Edward reached and turned on the TV, the screen flickering alive.
“This is the BBC morning news: World famous Opera Singer Julia Parafiroie and her staff were arrested half an hour ago in San Courascantia. Documents were seized in a special operation’s raid linking her to the now outlawed terrorist organisation, the Italian Socialist Party. The documents also name Harold Pantell, Lord Edward Walden, and Doctor Clark as co- conspirators. She and her associates are being held in maximum security prison.”

Pantell choked on his brandy and Edward spewed his out like a fountain. “What utter rubbish! Parafiroie being a socialist, there’s no way, but why are we included?” Edward exclaimed.
“This is gossip and slander, we have no dealings with the Socialists. I suspect there is something else going on here, I don’t know what, but someone is after us,” Pantell spoke.
“Pantell, Edward look here!” cried Dr Clark running up from downstairs, holding a copy of today’s edition of The Parish Flash.
“General Videla has arrested Madame – ”
Pantell read, “Communist Parafiroie arrested, however investigation on English associates Harold Pantell, Lord Edward Walden and Dr Clark still continue, (turn to page 3 for more information).”
“Isn’t it dreadful,” Doctor Clark exclaimed.
“What a load of hogwash,” Edward remarked jumping to his feet.
“It gets worse,” Pantell said.
“Harold Pantell, world famous reporter, is suspected of being a communist sympathiser due to his links with Parafiroie and his denunciation of the Governments of Germany, Italy and Spain. It is also alleged by our sources that he and Lord Walden may be in a homosexual relationship. Records show that the two men are not married and frequent each other’s houses at strange hours during the night!”
All three men stood there, mouths wide open not believing what they heard.
“This is absolute rubbish! Lying fascist puppet tabloid! Our reputation will be ruined!” cried Edward.
“Hmm, possibly, but there is still hope. The Parish Flash is owned by one of Videla cronies. The only way to stop this barrage is to engage with the snake himself. We must set Videla straight. I’ll send him a telegram denying the charges,” Pantell stated.
“Good plan, Pantell. I’ll help you,” said Edward.

For the next fifty minutes Pantell with the assistance of Edward and Clark wrote a short two-page telegram, carefully constructing the response to best defend themselves. By 9am the telegram was sent via Morse code. They watched the news, growing restless for a response from Videlocopolis. However, to their shock, by ten o’clock there was a special edition of BBC News, with General Videla appearing live from the Presidential Palace to give a special broadcast.
He was a tall gentleman, with dark brown slicked back hair and a large French moustache. However, it was his eyes that were the most frightful part; they were a dark green and had such intensity it was like they were piercing into your soul.
“Treason, traitors, left wing Socialists, cowards skulking in your dusty English mansion! Puppet masters in this vile Marxist conspiracy! Tremble crooked cross-dresser Lord Walden.”
Edward lost it. He ran to the TV and planted his nose on the screen screaming, “You crooked-nosed fascist hillbilly!”
“I just received this.” He pulled out a telegram from his pocket, Edward stepped away.
“It is a telegram from Harold Pantell denying the charges! I am a reasonable man – could this be an innocent misunderstanding? And that is why I invite Pantell and his Friends to come to Videlocopolis to clear this matter up. I personally guarantee them safe passage for a fair and frank exchange of views. My only aim is to seek out the truth!
“Well, that seems fair enough,” Edward exclaimed, calming down.
“Could be a trick,” Pantell said.
“He promised us safe passage,” responded Edward.
“Promises are cheap,” Pantell stated in an angry tone.
“Well, I am going, I want to get to the bottom of this. I want to clear both of our names. We can’t fight Videla here, we need to take him up on his offer, it’s the only way.”
“I’ll book the flights right away,” Doctor Clark said.
“Good, looks like we’re going to our own personal hell, San Courascantia,” muttered Pantell.

In the heart of Paris, a city shrouded in darkness under the shadow of Nazi occupation, a spark of resistance burned secretly. It was carried in the surreptitious pages of my Father’s paper, Libre France. As the son of Claude Bain, the man who was currently single-handedly responsible for the resistance’s back alley into the minds of the French, this placed me in a very dangerous position.

My father had instilled in me as a child a sense of purpose and great nationalism. He told me to fight for the truth, and to fight for what was right. Being involved in the news, my father had always been a strong advocate for the press, and the people’s right to know what was really happening in their country. When Paris became occupied, he was silenced, and that did not sit well with my father. He refused to be silenced, and subsequently started Libre France in our basement.

The first night of the German occupation, I could hear muffled sounds coming from below. Inherently curious, I ventured into the dimly lit basement to find my father and his friends crowded around a table. Their frantic tone quickly ceased as I showed myself, too late for them to keep me blissfully ignorant. It was that night I realised the power of language, and that year I would learn how stubborn my fellow Parisians were. Little did I know that I would be playing a crucial role in their plan.

In the coming weeks I joined my father and his friends in our basement, plotting the best routes to deliver the paper at night, through back alleyways, tunnels, secret doors. All things the Germans had no clue existed. Unsure of my role at the time, I was simply there to share my knowledge of the streets and how to get around. I was quite a troublesome child, so I had special ways of getting around the trouble that I sometimes put myself in. Over time, I got quite good at it, and my father knew this. “My son. It is time for you to carry the torch of truth.”

My father was deeply conflicted; I could see the internal conflict in his eyes. With a hesitant hand, he gave me a stack of papers, the first batch they had fully produced. Using the press in our basement, the amount that could be produced was limited. “Remember Son, they want nothing more than you.” The papers included instructions on how to create weapons, disable cars, and methods of reporting important information back to the correct people. After receiving and reading the papers, they would be burned.

Embracing my newfound role in the Resistance, I ventured into the night towards an uncertain fate. The first delivery I made I will never forget. Initially confused and scared, suspecting a Gestapo raid the man did not answer the door, and I saw he ran out the back. “Stop! I am with the Resistance. Here, take this paper. Burn it once you’re done,” I explained.

“Libre France?” he asked.

“Libre France,” I answered.

Paris, once a city of love and passion, was now the shell of what it had been. Armed with the very thing to change the hearts and minds of the people of Paris, I proceeded to deliver all the papers in that batch. I had just planted the seed of hope and a fighting chance into an entire city. Word spread very quickly among people in the city, and before my father’s paper was a pure source of information.

With the aid of my father’s friends, my secret deliveries took me through narrow passages and hidden safe houses. I met people from all walks of life, including many people in power before the occupation, now in hiding. The papers provided a glimmer of hope for all, its success lending itself to this very fact. The paper became my father’s and my bullets to fire at the oppressors.

Amidst all the chaos that became my life, I managed to find a young woman by the name of Elise, her eyes filled with fire and her voice carrying the courage of a hundred men. She became my guide to the web of tunnels and secret passageways that I would take advantage of to distribute the papers every week. Together we provided the people of Paris with an insight into the war effort.

As our influence and deliveries increased, so did suspicion and Gestapo raids became more and more frequent. The hunt for those responsible for undermining the fear tactics of the Nazis was rapidly increasing. Some nights hundreds of homes would be raided in a desperate attempt to cease the printing of my father’s paper.

One moonlit night, as Elise and I ventured into the heart of Paris, we found ourselves cornered in an abandoned alley. The Gestapo had become aware of our routes, and they were rapidly closing in on our position. With seemingly no way out, as a last gesture we would burn the papers and go down fighting. Just as a wave of despair threatened to swallow us whole, a chorus of footsteps echoed from the shadows. My father and his men had come to our aid.

A fierce firefight ensued, with losses being taken on both sides, the sounds of the conflict reverberating throughout Paris’ streets. Amid the chaos, Elise and I found our way to safety, escaping the clutches of the enemy’s grip. That week’s batch had remained intact, currently the most valuable item in the entire city.

Over the course of the war, thousands of copies of Libre France would be printed, the papers reach expanding to the entirety of France. My father, armed with a printer and a free mind, captured the morale of his entire country and provided more resistance than any gun could.

Libre France.

I awake to the sound of screams from downstairs.

Mother, “Don’t freaking touch me!”

Father, “Stop screaming!”

Mother, “No! You are freaking embarrassing!” …

I pull the covers off myself, and creep towards the door. I feel the blood pummeling through my veins; I can feel the shallowness of my breath. The room engulfs me with darkness. Each step fills me with fear as though the house will hear my steps towards the door.

I make it to the door, creaking it open ever so slightly to expose the lifeless hall. Now I stand in silence, not daring to move or make a noise, with nothing but the shouts of those I love to keep me company. I hear them say…

Mother, “I was better off alone!”

Father, “I don’t think that’s true, can y-”

Mother, “No, stop talking, you always belittle me… let me speak.”

As I stand in the void of the house, I contemplate every word and action. “Should I go down?” I ask myself hesitantly.

I can fix it. I should’ve helped more; they wouldn’t be fighting now if I had just been more considerate. My ears fill with nothing but noise, endless and crude. Finally, an abrupt slam of the door crashes through the fog of my thoughts, snapping me back to reality. I close the door ever so quietly and seek shelter within the sanctuary of my sheets. I close my eyes and see nothing but what I did wrong.

I wake up after a full sleep yet the weight of my conscience is still bearing down on me. If I just close my eyes for a bit,it will make me feel better. The day passes and I come home to find my mother… smiling, unaware of what I know. I play the charade, as that is how the game works; we all wear faces to make sure the world keeps spinning, because nothing is free, and happiness comes at a price.

I always wonder at what point did we make this deal with the universe… when did we decide that this is what it would cost. And so I go about my night, we sit at the table, eat our food and talk about the mediocre encounters of our day.

Mother, “How was your day?”

Child, “Good, I had training. I’ve got a bit of study, how was your day?”

Mother, “Busy day, I had work, It’s a bit stressful. But otherwise not too bad.”

Child, “And you, Father, how was your day?”

Father, “It was good; I got a lot done, lots of meetings. I’m tired now.”

I stress in my mind how they could act like nothing had happened, how they pretend everything is fine for my sake. We clean up dinner, I go to study, Mother goes to the seclusion of the bedroom, Father goes to the study. We had completed what is expected of us.

After a few hours of silence, I sit as the clock stares at me. A constant reminder of what happens when I go to sleep, where we can finally be truthful. I go to bed hopeful that maybe tonight they can be happy; I again wake to the sounds I dreaded I would hear…

Father, “How is this fair? I do everything for you!”

Mother, “Everything you do is on your own; you don’t consult me on any decisions. I am a trophy to your life!”

Father, “That’s not true. I do what I do for you.”

Mother, “You’re weak; I have wasted these years, and for what!”

Father, “Wasted?!”

I walk downstairs, edging closer and closer to their room. I now stand at the threshold of their bedroom door.

Father, “You argue with me about not giving you enough control, yet when I do you complain that I overwhelm you.”

Mother, “Don’t you dare say that! All I ask it that you consult me when you are making decisions with our money.”

Father, “Why does it have to be about money?”

Mother, “Because that’s all you care about!”

The sound of skin hitting flesh reverberates from inside the room. This will not be another time I stand by. I rush into the room to find my parents’ backs to me. I grab my father by the shoulder and turn him to face me. No one would place their hands on my mother!

As he turns to face me, I ball my fist with anticipation. I raise my hand to strike him… I am stopped dead in my tracks, the red mark on the right side of his face glares at me and fills me with discontent.

We dare not utter a word as my gaze shifts from my father to my mother; a war of emotions rages inside of me. In an effort to gain control I sprint out of the room upstairs; I hear their voices calling after me.

Father, “Come back…”

Mother, “It’s ok, come talk…”

Their words speak emptily in my ears as I rush into the fortress that is my room and slam the door behind me. I wait there for a moment with my hands placed firmly against the smooth wood. The thoughts in my head move so fast they can barely flash before my consciousness then they are as easily cast from my mind. I try to focus on my breath as I wait for it to slow down, for everything to slow down.

Finally, everything stops, now in the darkness of my room. Not a single sound dares enter my ears; my arms give way from their once strong position they had on the door. I let myself slump down on the end of my bed, as an unspoken recognition to let myself feel. Without warning, a tear starts rolling down my face as I consider what has occurred. I had promised myself I wouldn’t become what they are… That I would end it there… I am consumed by emotions of guilt and failure, I had failed; I had sought to fix it in the only way I knew how.

The way I was taught.

This isn’t about me; I am one of millions, I am a son to millions, I am a daughter to millions, this isn’t just my story….