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Speculative Fiction

There it is. At least I think that’s it, though it might be a cloud bank. Or land, shrouded in mist. Anyway, it's beautiful, and it’s my future.

It’s only eighteen miles away, but at this very moment it might as well be eighteen thousand. I’ve heard that people used to swim there in the old days – cover themselves in goose fat against the cold, then breast-stroke the whole distance. They’d have a boat beside them for support, which seems a little senseless; why didn’t they simply get in the boat?

I’m going by boat myself, not sure when. I’ve got my deposit down – a thousand creds, which isn’t cheap. There are people that’ll do it for half that, but I’ve heard of bodies washing up on the shore, and I’m not so keen on dying just yet. My man, Maurice – I’m sure that’s not his real name – has a good reputation. You won’t find his name on the I-net, obviously. The necessarily scant word-of-mouth that finds its way to me says he only uses the best-quality boats – safe and quick. And not overloaded; at the price he charges, he can afford to keep numbers down.

If I get a bit nearer the edge … careful, careful, the ground’s very crumbly here. Yes, that’s it, I think, down there on the right – that little cove, with the grey waves lapping in. Perfectly hidden from the patrol boats. Not sure how we’re going to get there. Rope ladder? Secret tunnel? Search me. I’ll find out nearer the time. Mustn’t get too impatient. That’s when the slips come; a loose word might mean the difference between escape and the clink. Or worse.

To be honest, I can hardly contain my excitement. I think about it every minute of every day, although my thoughts are rather vague. No one knows for sure what’s over there, except, I imagine, those at the very top of the regime, or in the Ministry of Splendid Isolation. Or Maurice.

I asked him; all he would say was “It’s different”. I wanted to know what that meant. He said he didn’t want to expand. I could see from his face that it was different in a good way. One thing I couldn’t work out – if it’s so different, and in a good way – was why he doesn’t take one of his boats and just stay there. I asked him that, too. He simply shook his head, then patted his heart.

Apart from his ferrying activities, the MSI would arrest him if they caught him extolling the virtues of anything other than what we have here. Our countryside is the best, they say. I must admit that the sooty-grey hillsides, the plains, the coast, all have a certain austere beauty. Our music is the best, they say. It’s not a lie – I don’t think I’ll ever tire of pipes and drums. Our food is the best, they say. I do quite like cod-meal and oats, but my tongue and tummy protest sometimes. I must never say that out loud, however.

Nor must I ever show anyone my paintings. When I’m not at the factory, I take my paper and vegetable-dye paints down to the riverside; the smell is sometimes bearable when the wind’s blowing in the right direction. I paint the dark, skeletal trees that grip desperately onto the bank; I paint the slate-grey rainclouds crawling across the sky; I paint the birds that perch in the branches of the trees, then take flight to swoop along the river. I like to paint their bright colours, which is highly illegal, of course.

When anyone passes, I hide the work in my fishing bag and grab my rod. I’ll have already used it to cast a float out into the dawdling waters. I’m taking a risk with this subterfuge, naturally; everyone knows there are no fish left to catch in the rivers. I bank on people imagining that I’m an old eccentric, to be pitied, no more. So far it seems to have worked,

I’d like to hang the paintings on my wall, but that would be far too risky. I keep them rolled up under the floorboards. I know it’s a crime to produce the paintings – and to store them. However, I can’t begin to describe the curious, irresistible impulse that enters my being at times. I do know it’s stronger than me.

This is the main reason I need to leave. I want not to have to think twice about every idea I have, every word I say, every painting I produce. Plenty of people seem quite happy with their lot, that’s fine. But I’m sure – I don’t know how – that this is not all there is. That the reason we’re here in this world is not merely to serve the regime.

Yes, I’m eager for the days when I don’t have to hide … anything. When I can sit with a friend to discuss painting, relationships, the weather, and not be afraid that an unfriendly ear will report it as sedition.

The woman in the room next to mine, Catherine, who I liked very much, was caught in this way. A neighbour from down the corridor was fond of her too. When she rebuffed his advances, he engineered a meeting between her and a teacher from his son’s school, who he also held a grievance against. A word to the MSI and they quickly discovered the two – simply talking. That was enough. She was jailed for fifteen years for conspiracy. The teacher disappeared.

Of course, while it’s important to heed these threats, it’s equally important not to give them too much weight. Dwelling on them can drive a person mad – a man from the next block took his own life last week, for instance. I’m determined not to go that way. And so the boat…

I asked Maurice how I should prepare for the journey. He told me to travel light, which is a little ironic because I possess next to nothing. According to him, I should wear warm, waterproof clothes; I have two sweaters, which I’ll wear one on top of the other, and I’ll fashion a cagoule from bin-bags. He said that creds can easily be traded for local currency (though I won’t have much money to trade – even less after paying the rest of the fare).

When we met, he briefly taught me some of the local lingo to get me started, and I’ve been turning it over in my head ever since. Just short phrases, like:

Bonjour. Je m’appelle Philip.

Simple words that feel like freedom on my lips and tongue.

April 23, 2024 01:38

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15 comments

Carol Stewart
17:21 May 01, 2024

Wow, poignant ending but beautifully subtle. Well written.

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PJ Town
04:04 May 02, 2024

Thanks very much for the kind words, Carol!

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Darvico Ulmeli
07:20 Apr 30, 2024

Nicely done. Kept my atention till end.

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PJ Town
04:03 May 02, 2024

Thanks for the read and positive words, Darvico!

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Helen A Smith
09:26 Apr 28, 2024

You have me intrigued. Will he make it to this island or is in fact a trap? Will things actually be worse than his dire present? Good story.

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PJ Town
00:04 Apr 29, 2024

It's interesting how the writer's intentions can sometimes be interpreted differently by the reader. I'd intended it to be that the narrator is escaping FROM an island ... but your interpretation is perfectly valid, of course, Helen. And you're quite right - will the grass be greener? (Though the vibes the narrator gets from Maurice seem to suggest it will be.) Thanks for the read and comment!

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Helen A Smith
06:48 Apr 29, 2024

I really liked it. Bear in mind. I tend to take things literally. I sometimes have found this when people read my stories. Sometimes they interpret it differently to the way I intended, but it’s all good. I think I will give your story another read.

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Trudy Jas
00:16 Apr 24, 2024

Wonderful detail.

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PJ Town
23:59 Apr 28, 2024

Thank you, Trudy!

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Mary Bendickson
18:15 Apr 23, 2024

Such glowing praise about a place so obviously depressing.

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PJ Town
23:59 Apr 28, 2024

Faint praise really, Mary? Thanks once again for the read!

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Alexis Araneta
15:42 Apr 23, 2024

Oooh, another detail rich story, PJ. The imagery is so vivid. Splendid stuff.

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PJ Town
23:58 Apr 28, 2024

Thanks again for your encouraging comments, Stella!

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Ty Warmbrodt
03:17 Apr 23, 2024

Well done. Vivid imagery of a place I wouldn't want to be either. Good luck to your protagonist.

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PJ Town
23:57 Apr 28, 2024

Me neither, Ty ... though I did once live there... Thanks for the read!

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