In The Night Factory

The phone rang and afterwards there was a long silence. Only marching soldiers are heard outside an open window. A fresh breeze blows the grey curtain away from its resting place on the green ledge.

Chief Commander Roberts instructs his fellow sergeants to stand to attention. "Welcome to the new world men, future generations will thank us when all is said and done, but remember this; tell them only the good things, the career prospects, the life of action, helping of poor and underprivileged refugees like, not killing them or anything nor manipulating their plight for queen and country and OKay, got that, eh Mr Jones? (Shouting in Jones’s ear) Have you got that Mr Jones I say (eyeing him closely, faces nearly touching). Superintendent Jones here, he is the company historian, isn’t you Mr Jones, “Yes Sir” who is employed to sort out everything out nice and tidily isn’t he, Mr Jones, heh. “Yes sir.” (Turning at last towards the lined up men, standing to attention) Go give it your best boys. We are outmoded. We are cannon fodder. When I die I will just be replaced by another? We will be heroes when we get it, typical of the M.O.D. that one, all their spin in’ it? Our helmets are made of cardboard and tin, our armoured vehicles fitted out with not enough protection for all the dangerous situations that they place us in. Yet men, we shall never complain, those are orders, but just remember, you've signed up for five years. Just thought I’d chuck that last one in to cheer the guys up, heh. Right, Fall out.

Labels: Commander, Phone, rang, sir

# posted by Neil @ 2:53 pm

True bombs never land on our home towns. No missiles will land on our domiciles. Then there are the so called terrorist projectiles, passed through hands, placed secretly onto trains, riding with the passengers, cosying up to and resting against your under-sides. Every journey you get closer to bombs. Bombs, bombs everywhere you look. No bomb is a bomb until a bomber decides, then you get fragments all inside you and over you, hundreds and thousands of metallic messages. The evil menace then becomes flashed up on many news reels, political campaigns run with it, documentary retrospectives inform you about it, loosing its impact, loosing its steel. But there are always more out ready to re-new their charge, competing with the terror exchange; learning from experience, hiding on your journey home, watching where you rest and where you clatter on your computer desk. You think bombs can go flying and come to rest, in your tea and down your string vest. You fidget and scratch but that itch is still there. Itch, itch, itch, and then boom bam boom! Another person’s life is, sadly, and needlessly, over too soon.

Labels: bombs, journey, land, messages

# posted by Neil @ 1:57 am

There is a new Mad Max film coming out. Set again in the desert at an unspecified time in the future and gangs roam the deserted landscape, adrenaline pumped and mega-death music blasting through their ears. In this version the police are the enemy, arrived recently from a distant planet, desperate for fuel and economic resources, with the aim of seizing control of earth and 'policing' the occupants into submission. Whilst siphoning off the worlds resources the bogus police demand legitimacy for their actions from the various tribes in the area, seeking to divide and rule they instigate a civil war amongst the various ethnic populations, arming and instructing various sides in order to establish their version of 'stability', i.e; the illusion that they, the alien police are a force for order and peace. The Alien police sit back and watch as the populace war with each other instead of with their own forces, being unable themselves to fend off a full scale rebelion. They want a national government on their terms, not the local populations, to secure their dominance of this vital resource area in the Universe. Until this happens no nationalism (dissidence) is allowed to sprout and grow out of control. Popular opinion is important to the these police, both on earth and on their own distant planet as this supports their legitimacy as a force of good. To this end the media is tightly controlled so as to 'shield' the public from the truth of what 'our brave men' are doing and why they are doing it. The 'police' are working towards 'democracy' and liberation for the earths people.

# posted by Neil @ 1:55 am

A surgical strike. They write their names on the bombs that roll out on the carpet, falling finally, ultimately, gloriously, across the towns and cities and people, not having time to run to the hills, to deny the enemy their assets. Admittedly some confusion was caused by areas by incontinent ordnance, the Germans and the Italians, oops sorry, the Americans and the British, unable by some logistical error to deliver their missiles to theatre on time or in the correct localities. Media outlets confirm: eighty percent total collateral damage.

The coalition verges on collapse with 'international' allies held back by an angry public at home. There will only be small demonstrations around the world reports government channels, only ten percent turn out, the rest staying at home and believing the news that we tell them on their TV sets; of heroes saving captives from nasty totalitarian leaders, whom we must hang, of the success of democracy and the failure of terror, of there being winners and losers and enhanced credibility.

# posted by Neil @ 12:17 am

It began as a normal office; large windows and areas of sectioned flooring running the whole length the ground level, rooms set aside for the purposes of induction and basic training, with a main reception at the end of a long hall. All tables and chairs are cleared, replaced by hard wearing de-constructible types, easy to fix, looking just like the normal emptied out business spaces, now being been transformed for quite a different purpose. Squared intersections hide large winding snakes of packed electrical wire connecting to hidden cameras, security alarm systems and air conditioning units. They exit at flap-up electric socket covers every few meters. Water alarm sensors flash, remote controls beep, push button speakers are checked for use at entries and exits, and are all working well, ready to receive, to accept the first intake, the sixty odd people estimated to be travelling from all over the county that week.

Clients in their homes, nervous about the induction procedure, phoned in to check on the correct times; “no need to bring anything, just yourselves, alright Mr Hargreaves, Miss Plummory, Amy Inglewood, Trevor Harp, Billy Name, make sure you get here fifteen minutes early, it pays to be early.” The phone clunked down. A shrill shiver perhaps running down their spines, “that’s what they think, they think we’re just cattle to be herded around, prodded and poked around into stiles!”

“She, he, is for CDG!” ran the company saying. With quiet excitement, over the photocopier or printing machine, letting a laugh or a shared giggle mix with the mechanical paper shifter or the hoarse scanner repetitively etching A4 copies into the tray. The two women processing new applicants looked forward to the change of faces, the new clients for the corporation to guide towards righteousness, a valued place on earth. Satisfied in their world of official social security make believe, incarcerated high up there on the tenth floor of the work and pension’s administration office building. “Hey, look at him, do you think you’d give him’ a job - I wouldn’t give him a job (giggle), glancing at the latest mug shot to be positioned onto the A4 glass.

Certain people would disappear overnight from their homes. Nobody in the community knew where they went. “They’re not missed” neighbours would say. The T.V. news proudly proclaimed low government figures for the month. People were overlooked, not thought about, vanished from local towns and villages, sent to special camps, travel paid, told by officials that they are to receive special employment training. “Get there on time, don’t be late. We know you’re not used to getting up so early so remember to set your clock for nine. Time waits for no man; we'll give you extra money at a fixed rate.” The phone went down clunk.

# posted by Neil @ 12:27 am