It was a bright cold day in January and the clock struck thirteen. Anthony Charles Lynton Smith sat in his room and poured some bottled water into a cracked cup. The room was small, the magenta paint peeling slightly in the far corner. Tony had returned from his work in the records department of the Ministry of Truth half an hour previously. He had left some box files on his desk. They would keep. They had kept for some time. Now, though, was his time.
The flat screen which dominated the wall opposite his door flickered into life. Three women sat on chairs. They seemed to be staring at him. And then one turned and seemed to whisper. Her voice was inaudible. Birdsong filled the room. It was calming. He sat there often. Watching them sleep. Watching them eat. Watching them dream.
Tony kept the screen on through the night. As he sat he did not always feel the need to watch. He read. He ate. He drank: bottled water; and Victory Gin. Tony picked up a book, a battered copy passed from functionary to functionary within the Ministry. He read,
IF THERE IS HOPE IT LIES IN THE PROLES.
Tony nodded. It was right. Appeased by the lottery, sated by a ready diet of titilating pictures and stories about Oceanic actors and singers, it was peculiar to view the proles as the engine for revolution. But, only the proles could throw off the shackles and demand something more.
Yes, he thought. If there is hope it lies in the proles.
Tony glanced at the screen, grimaced as the face of one girl contorted, her teeth bared. Tony looked back at his book.
If there is hope it lies in the proles.
He looked up again, shook his head.
Sod that, he thought. I’ll give the book back to O’Brien.
Smith: I suppose you’re going to tell me if I want to see the future I should imagine a camera pointed at a barely sentient face; forever.
O’Brien: You had better not be imagining it, Smith. You had better be watching it or a visit to Room 5 may be in order.
Smith: No! No! Not Celebrity Love Island! My girlfriend hasn’t even gone digital yet. Make her watch it. Not me!
Fabulous.
You should really send that in for one of these ultra short short story competitions that are always popping up..
Doyou really stil have snow??
Thanks. Writing it was more enjoyable than IPL of insolvency at any rate…
All gone by Friday pm, but still some on Friday morning. The greater Falkirk micro-climate has its own delights!
the even micro-er climate of larbert still had some friday evening, albeit it was in the melted-down shape of a crudely-formed snowbeing from a couple of days previous. indeed it mostly resembled a speck of ice on the back patio.
The lover’s retreat: proleworld
“This room hasn’t even got a telescreen” said
JadeJulia “how do you expect me to get famous unless I can get caught shagging you on live TV, huh? Am I bovvered?.”Winston hung his head in despair.
> If there is hope it lies in the proles.
No it doesn’t.
Indeed
I feel a little sorry for Ms Goody, in that the foulest comments actually came from Ms LLoyd, an insidious character who may escape now that Ms Goody has carried the can and lanced the festering boil.
dont forget mrs vile o’meara who was also party to this farce. she too contributed. incidentally, she looks not unlike pat butcher.