Page 3 of Longing for Liberty
Rex: Hell, yeah! Tiny Tyrant! Fuck, man, are we gonna get arrested for this? *joined laughter*
Ian: My girlfriend says Roan gives off big dick energy. *Speaks over Rex’s laughter* Seriously, what is up with all these politicians? That one governor, Fitzhugh, my girlfriend fuckin’ locks in when he’s on screen talking about boring shit!
Rex: *looks at phone* I’m getting a news alert…holy shit.Listen to this! Investigative journalist Wylie McMahon was shot to death at a hotel in Prague. International police found no evidence of foul play. His death has been deemed self-inflicted.
Ian: No fucking way. That’s shady as fuck. I don’t even know what to say.
Rex: Well, that’s a first!
August 15
The Guardian—Independent Journalism Faces Backlash in U.S.: Phrase ‘Tiny Tyrant’ Deemed Arrestable Offense: International News Becomes Banned by American FCC
August 21
BBC—Thousands Arrested Across U.S. While Protesting New Bill Hindering First Amendment Right of Free Speech: Top Three Most Used Social Media Apps Shut Down
September 7
States News—In an Age of Paranoia, Conspiracy Theories, and Dangerous Misinformation, President Roan Introduces New Solitary Source of News and Truth! State News!
ONE
STATE NEWS: EUROPEAN WAR RAGES ON AFTER FORMER USA ATTACKS!
I lay in the darkness,halfway between sleep and wake, nurturing the seed of imagination that came to me while dreaming. It had been so long—how long?—since a book idea hit me… I couldn’t focus on time at that moment as I felt for the character my mind had conjured. She was poor. A seafaring woman with magic in her blood. What was her plight? Her motivation? Her place in the fantasy world I’d spent years creating, where I’d fabricated countless lives and adventures and lovers?
My fingers ached to open my laptop. To type the words that would come together to form the story that would land in the hands of a reader in need of something I could give them. Hope bloomed in my chest like a bud on a fast-forward reel, pushing out and opening vibrant and luscious and?—
I gasped.
Bright, unnatural light hit my eyelids, jolting my system, heart pounding. After six years of night checks, my body instinctively knew to remain still in bed with my eyes closed. If I looked, I would be blinded by a handheld spotlight shining through our curtainless window as the State Force did their rounds, making sure all citizens were at home in their beds. Jeremy stirred next to me, probably throwing his tanned forearm over his eyes. Seconds later, it was dark again, but my heart did not settle.
I was still halfway in that mist of fantasy, and it shattered me to let the dream fade back to reality, where American city police forces, sheriff departments, federal agencies, and military branches had all morphed into one entity. The State Force focused solely on our own country’s issues now, rooting out any lingering dissent and rebuilding after the Third World War’s devastation. According to our three solitary leaders—Roan, Walinger, and Fitzhugh—we were nearly a perfect nation now.
I kicked off the sheet, my body damp from sweat in the too-hot room.
“You okay, Lib?” Jeremy whispered. In the darkness, I could make out the outline of his raised head looking toward me, then at the window, which only showed the night sky now.
“Yeah,” I whispered back.
He shifted closer and kissed the side of my head, pulling me to him and calming my heart. I raised my arm and gently rubbed a hand over the soft, but thick, shaved hair on the back of his head. Seconds later, his breathing slowed, and I knew he was asleep again.
The vivid hope that my tired brain had raised while I slept died on the vine, a shriveled husk I couldn’t help but mourn…and also disdain. Because why would my mind fool me like that? I hadn’t owned a laptop in six years. Hadn’t written in seven, since media was outlawed. My job as a storyteller was over, and it had been cruel and dangerous of my slumbering mind to forget.
* * *
All windows were downon the old shuttle bus, swirling the hot air around our heads. Still, I sweated as we bumped along, my bony hips flush against the man and woman on either side of me, all of us staring around with blank expressions. My loathsome maid uniform was itchy and hot, making me long for the past days of tank tops, jean shorts, and sandals. I let my eyes wander to the picture plastered on the bus wall of the State Three: President Roan, Vice President Walinger, and Secretary of Arms Amos Fitzhugh. The caption underneath said, “Serving the State with justice for all.”
Not for all, actually. Just those who looked like them. And me. If I were to glance around at others on the bus, I knew what I would see: some pale faces, some freckled, some tanned from the sun, but all of them Eurocentric. White. It still shocked me sometimes…the complete lack of diversity. The sameness. The wrongness of how it came to pass.
I tried not to glare at the picture of President Roan with his baby face and the cute smile that had won over America—our youngest president ever. The tiny tyrant. I shivered a little just thinking about that nickname, words which had caused podcasters and other people to be arrested for repeating them. It had all happened fast from that point. Without any media, we were like ants without pheromones to show the way, floundering.
Behind Roan in the close-up picture was Vice President Walinger, known for his beard, cowboy hat, and scratchy accent. The quintessential Texan. I wondered if he still had the belly that stretched the buttons on his shirt as they had on television seven years ago, or if he’d lost weight with the rest of us. Also behind Roan on his other side was Fitzhugh. Classically handsome. They looked so harmless, Roan and Walinger smiling, and Fitzhugh giving that signature smirk.
I looked away toward a coughing child with a hand cast standing by her mother’s side as her mother checked her full face of makeup in a pocket mirror. They must have been on their way to the wound doctor. All children of workers were homeschooled, so the only time they left their neighborhoods was for church or if they had injuries.
The girl looked flushed and splotchy as she wiped her nose on her dress sleeve and coughed again. I saw the woman beside them slightly turn away and pretend to scratch her nose, keeping her hand hovering over her face for a long moment as if to block germs.
