The Professor (Tentative Title) Chapter One

He stood, disbelieving, at the threshold of madness. He watched as everything he knew and understood turned to ash before his very eyes. All the hopes, all the dreams, all the sanity, everything was being destroyed. The entire country was in the throws of total chaos. Idealists, poets, artists, dreamers, scholars... all of them a danger to the new government. A government that changed from a democracy to an empire in just a few short presidential terms. Times had changed, things kept getting worse. Quite frankly, all hell had broken loose.

First, it was the music. Songs that contained cursing were censored, as were songs regarding rape, murder, drugs, sex, and other crimes of violence. The people thought the censorship was just fine, it made many songs that they deemed inappropriate to be taken off the radio waves. They thought that was helping. Yet, by this single act of compliance, this country changed forever. If censoring lyrics was all right, why not start to ban them as well? Just discontinue playing some songs all together. Many songs fell onto what the government called the "Black List". Every day, it seemed, the list grew longer as more and more music was banned because the government called it "bad". After the music, the books started to go. This took longer to control since books are not a government related business. It was a slow progression. Words were removed, then certain situations, such as sex and domestic violence. As time continued, it became more severe. Schools started banning books, then towns would ban an author's whole collective works.

Such a small scale was the beginning of the end. Before long, the small town governments petitioned their state governors to ban books throughout the state. Soon after, the senators started to ban things nationwide. Many great books were fed to the slaughter. The writers were told what they could pen, their editors made sure that only things the government approved would be published.

Paintings and sculptures were torn out of museums and locked away from the public's view. The cost of art supplies was raised greatly to discourage many. Scholars and professors were told what to teach and how to teach it. Many philosopher's were fired, others simply quit, giving up. Far too many from those professions just vanished, never to be seen or heard from again.

This kind of chaos was where he now found himself. He was currently hiding in an alley way, watching the flames with intense, hate-filled eyes. He used to teach as a professor of English Literature at the university. He spent countless hours in the library, researching a topic, gathering obscure works by an author of interest or simply reading from his favourite poets. The library at the university was one of the most extensive in the city, or at least it used to be. While he stood, hiding between the administrative and general science buildings, he watched as the loyal government groupies took armfuls of the precious words and tossed them haphazardly into the unforgiving flames.

He noticed the vivid green cover of a poetry book, one of his most beloved. Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. He had spent endless hours leafing through the old tome, feeling the texture of the paper, breathing in its age. Reading time and again the essays, the prose, and the poems. Memorizing the words of Whitman until they came to him as old friends on campus. And now it was about to be devoured by the unforgiving flames. He took a step forward, he had to stop it! This was wrong, it was blasphemous. He took another step and felt a hand take a grip on his arm, halting him from further movement. A voice whispered urgently in his ear, "No, you can't!" He knew he couldn't, there was too much work to do, too much that had to be completed. This was a crime against humanity and someone was going to pay the price of those sins. To destroy all the literature and remove all the art, to murder all the emotions of those people that created it... that had to be sin. He just couldn't sit by idly and let it go unpunished.

He was, himself, now considered an outlaw. Because of his devotion to art, he was called insane. Because of his teaching methods of making his students think for themselves, he was labelled an instigator. Because of his disdain for the government, he was branded a traitor. Now he was scorned as a fugitive, a man on the run. People said he was brainwashing his students and making them into radicals. A price had been put on his head, all that was left to him was to flee. He would be no good to any rebel cause as a cold and decaying corpse. With loathing resentment gripping his heart, he forced himself to turn away from the blaze of literary genius and do the only thing he could. With his student close at his heels, he ran. They stopped only when the comfort of night engulfed them, when even the most hard core insomniacs would be lulled to sleep. They slipped under an overpass, using their packs as pillows and old newspaper as insulating blankets, they made an attempt at sleep.

In the darkness, with the distant sirens as the city's music, the young student sat up, leaning on her elbows. She could see his, his eyes open, sad... like always. "Sir?"

"Hmm?"

"What was it like? I mean before..."

"Before our God-given free will and choice was stolen from us?" He paused and sighed heavily at the memories, "It was better. People weren't slaughtered for their beliefs. We weren't imprisoned for out likes, dislikes, hopes, dreams, fears. No, it wasn't perfect, but the people were happier. Cultures and sub-cultures were everywhere. You knew the type of music a person probably listened to by the wardrobe they had. You could tell the general profession by the car they drove. It wasn't a fool proof system, but it was the highlight of individuality. People had tattoos and things other then their ears pierced. Cars were simple or they were extravagantly painted. We loved being different, we relished in it!"

He stared up at the black concrete, fighting back his irritation and anger. "Now, peopl elive in constant fear of their own government. Many, too many, have been erased. One day, they're just gone. Several have been very dear friends of mine. They were the thinkers and dreamers. They had hopes, aspirations.

"When all this," he waved his hand in the chilled air to indicate everything, "started, those friends of mine were the first to notice the attempt at control. They were the first to start the peaceful protests, to demand that they keep the arts, and freedom. They were the ones that got the others to wake up and pay attention. My friends were also among the first to be arrested, persecuted, prosecuted, and erased. Only a small handful of them were able to escape. Some gave up the fight and became like the rest of the docile sheep controlled by the governmental border collie. Others were still loud and active right in front of that collie's nose. A few were a bit more... discrete. They went underground where they could fight back in more subtle ways."

"Subtle ways?" she asked.

He merely smiled slyly and didn't answer her. She understood his silence. There were people after the both of them and the less she knew about certain things, the better off she'd be. He was still protecting her, like that day so long ago. She closed her eyes at the memory, letting the darkness envelope her completely. He was her teacher, she was in high school at the time, but was taking his course at the university for credits. His course had a way of insisting the students think for themselves, answering questions intelligently. She loved the course. The work was difficult, which is what made it challenging, interesting, stimulating. He had mentioned a book in class one day and she wanted to look it over. When she found it was on the "Black List", she quickly tried to put it out of her mind, but she couldn't. Her curiosity got the better of her and she wanted to know what had made it so terrible, so horrible that it was placed on the banned lists.

That was when she started to think about all the things that were censored, banned, taken away. That was the start of her decision to do something about it. She became active in protests, shouting against music bans and book burnings. She'd been to several peaceful protests with nothing more then police and troops telling them to shut up and go home. She was on campus when it happened. The protesters had gathered in the parking lot, very near to where the books now laid in ashes. At first, it was a protest like any other. Banners and posters were being waved, books held in angry hands, music blared from amplifiers, voices calling out over bull horns or just alone shouting. Suddenly, the din was interrupted by panic and chaos. Flash bangs were exploding, cannisters erupted filling the air with gas to suppress the crowd. Bullets ripped through the air and bodies leaving many injured or dead. The protesters screamed, begging for the troops to stop shooting. Their cries went unheeded. There was only one option left, run! She tried, she didn't get far. Everyone had the same idea and she was knocked to the ground, desperately trying to crawl away from the madness. Her eyes were blinded by tears of pain and fear, her breath caught in her throat because of the tear gas. Just when she thought she was going to be trampled, shot, or worse erased, a hand grabbed hers and hauled her to her feet. Another wrapped its way around her waist and directed her, running away from the chaos. She stumbled and the hands simply carried her. Fear at who it was that taking her away made her cough out a bitter scream.

"Its me, its me!" hissed the familiar voice of her professor. "Now hush," he ordered. He led her away from it all, taking her some place safe. When all the bedlam finally stopped, there were few survivors. The wounded were taken away and never seen again. The government called then traitors and said they were trying to build a guerilla army to overthrow the peace that General Tringham had achieved. She mourned her friends, who died in a feeble attempt to regain their freedoms. She mourned for herself, her former life was over and she could never go back. The only bright thing was the professor and his help. He'd saved her life and had the bullet wound to prove it. That was nearly six months ago, though it felt like a millennia.

"Professor, how long ago did all this start?"

He sighed again, "Ten years ago, I think. Maybe more, maybe less. Its hard to pinpoint exactly when because it was a slow progression. Slow, but complete. As a population, we have lost nearly everything." He was quiet for several moments before speaking once more in a pained tone. "You'd better get some sleep, we have a long way to go tomorrow."

She grinned a little, there was always a long way to go the next day. She curled up tightly and drifted away into a sleep that felt so secure she could have been in a real bed and not on concrete.

Reviews

[B-poet]

This is a very well written and developed first chapter. I am deeply impressed on how you've captured the true essence of where you're going with the overall theme regarding your story. I'm new here with your chapters so I've got to play a little catch up. Yet, so far so good though. Great writing. :)

[Nyida Strong]

Thank you for your comment. As the chapters go, I posted them all at once.