Archive for the ‘Authors’ Category
Invigilation
Friday, April 24th, 2009
An expansive secondary school gymnasium, stuffy, no aircon, but a single file of metal wall-mounted fans moved the sluggish air around. Four hundred students from 15 independent schools around the tropical island-nation, in a variety of uniforms, different colors, different cuts, but all a monument to homogeneity. Uniformity. Embedded throughout each uniform, no matter the school, arphids: tiny invisible spies measuring physical location, heart rate, respiration, perspiration, muscle tension, pupil tracking, and white cell count, the information uploaded to Test Centre HQ, collated and cross-referenced.
Four hundred pens scratched on blank foolscap. Boys and girls still, but labeled the future leaders of the nation, the creativity drilled out of them, replaced with perfect test-taking skills. Up and down the aisles stepped the invigilators, bleary-eyed government teachers “volunteered” into this unpaid weekend activity. Monitored from above it all by an expansive grid of scunts, spray-painted white to blend in with the concrete ceiling, though every student and teacher below took it for granted that they were up there, transmitting visual confirmation of the arphids’ data mining.
No exterior information allowed in, no mobile phones, no PDAs, no unauthorized wireless transmitters, only a unidirectional flow of binaries, so that even though the outside world had begun falling apart three hours earlier when the exam began, the Obsidian Tower felled by green fire from the skies, panic and looting overtaking the streets, the normally docile and obedient citizenry reduced to an irrational mob, destruction of private and public property, and the government’s paramilitary shock-troopers mobilized on the streets to enforce martial law without pity or prejudice, even though all of this was happening, the press-ganged teachers and studious young people were none the wiser. Isolated within a bubble of blissful ignorance, the silence only occasionally punctuated by a muted cough or a squeaking sneaker, the leaders of tomorrow’s wreckage emptied neuronal interaction onto pressed dead tree.
Letters
Thursday, April 23rd, 2009
I got a letter from Grandma today. She’s making butterflies on commission. The cafeteria is free, she says, but she can buy great ethnic food with the money she earns. She likes Jamaican meat pies. She says the ones she gets now are much better than those we used to buy in Toronto. She thinks they are more traditional. I said it stands to reason.
I told her about you. She doesn’t really understand the Internet. I explained it is like a combination of writing letters and making telephone calls. Then she said she worried I was spending too much money on it.
I told her money can’t buy me love. But then I reminded her I just pay a flat fee every month. She was cool with you being so much younger. When she was coming up it was commonplace for women to marry much older men. Of course, then, they often had no choice in the matter. I didn’t tell her you were bi, but I did say we hoped to meet someday.
She said she saw Elvis last week. He was singing at some kind of impromptu outdoor performance. I don’t understand how they plan those without cell phones. Anyway, she said he sang Stairway to Heaven. Wish I’d been there. Not really, but I would have loved to see that concert.
It’s so nice they can write us now. Heaven isn’t what she expected, but she says her cousin Thelma shouldn’t call it a sweatshop. Grandma worked in one before the Depression. The real one. She made shirts. Up there, they don’t have to work at all, and of course they don’t sweat. It’s just that they need money if they want luxuries. I guess it’s His way of making sure souls maintain a good work ethic even after death. Or maybe he just needs the help. She said she’s made a lot of black swallowtails, so the next time you see one, it could be one of hers.
No, she could not get His autograph for you. All three of Them are working, like, 24/7. I know you were joking, but I asked anyway. The best she could do was Voltaire. She said he is easy to talk to, if you know French. I believe he thinks she’s hot.
To answer your other question, you definitely should write your sister. Even though it’s been years, I bet she misses you as much as you’ve missed her. Why wait?
The End