AtomicCafe1
02-13-2009, 09:24 AM
I surprised myself! I didn't know that I could make this story this long! Which may be a bad thing...the length will prevent some people from reading it, as it would for me. But for those who do read it, thanks a million! I anxiously await anyone's comments : )
The Voice
At the ripe age of twenty-five years old, on his morning voyage to work, a fellow by the name of Riley Cheever was plucked from the greasy streets and whisked away into oblivion. A week later, to the distress of his family and friends, his body was salvaged from the depths of the nearest river. A nice little funeral procession was held for the poor man, and people wept over the tragedy of this young one’s unfortunate demise.
Years down the road, these same people who lamented at the funeral were faintly reminded of Riley every now and then, namely during the daily broadcasts of their beloved Government headship, Vox Vocis. They could never quite put their fingers on it, but something oddly familiar about Riley was present during these celebrated broadcast sessions. However, soon enough, any resemblance was dismissed, and the memories of Riley’s time here on earth slowly faded away into the forgotten.
Coincidentally, Vox Vocis was introduced to the public as the Government leader just a few months after the disappearance of Riley Cheever. This fact made Riley’s parents especially mournful for their son’s death: he was never able to hear the impeccable voice of Vox Vocis! And millions of others felt the same of their lost loved ones of the past, whose lives weren’t quite consummated without having heard the angelic and booming voice of the god-like—mysterious as well, but god-like nonetheless—man.
For, really, the whole story of Vox Vocis is quite a mystery; his whole character, in fact, is shrouded with anonymity. He is never seen in public and very few pictures of him even exist. The only palpable thing about him is his voice, but really that is more than enough, for it his voice alone that enthralls, that captivates and that mesmerizes the masses. That formidable voice is utmost power, and it resonates thunderously throughout the land. Every last person is filled with fear, rapture and awe upon hearing it. Whatever Vox Vocis wants is done. He is comfort. He is wisdom. He is the emblem of the nation.
But again to the story of Riley Cheever. Riley, as a matter of fact, did not die. He was more than alive. What happened on that day of his disappearance was simple: he turned a corner, he fell into the arms of three burly men, a blindfold and hand were draped over his eyes and mouth, and he was taken to an undisclosed building. Here he was detained for a week in a room where not even the dimmest speck of sunlight could reach, and then suddenly a group of bureaucratic-looking men knocked on the door and brought him into another room with a table and chair in it. And then they talked to him and revealed his situation. And here is how it went:
“Sit down,” a voice commanded to Riley.
Riley obeyed.
“Mr. Cheever—well, first things first, that is not your name anymore.”
Riley nodded.
“You shall be addressed as Minor and Minor alone. Do you understand?”
Minor nodded.
“Minor, I want you know just how lucky you are. I don’t think you know that yet, do you?”
Minor shook his head.
“Do you follow politics?”
“N-n-no, sir,” Minor squeaked.
“Well surely you are aware of the recent changes in administration?”
“Y-y-yes, sir.”
“Good. Well then you should know this government’s creed. The people’s creed, I should say, for we were elected by their votes and their sense.”
A pause followed, and Minor, without knowing what to do, timidly nodded his head.
“In the coming years this government will lead our nation to the top. These past governments”—the man shook his head at this—“they have shattered our reputation and dropped us to the bottom. But now we have strength, and triumph shall come! We have a newly found ability for decision, action, and grit, and this will lead our nation back to where it belongs, back to where it used to be!”
The man coughed into his shoulder at this pointed. He then stared for several moments directly into the eyes Minor. He continued:
“And do you know how you fit into all of this, Minor?”
Minor shook his head.
“This government shall have only a voice as its definitive leader. A newborn child need only its mother’s voice to cease its wailing, and the same ploy shall be used here. Do you see?”
Minor nodded his head.
“A level of mystique and incomprehensibleness is to be utilized in this new administration, and a voice and nothing more will provide this.”
The man paused. Minor waited.
“And that voice will be yours.”
And the man went on to tell him about the specifics of the scheme: how he, Minor, would broadcast everyday to the people as the fictitious Vox Vocis; how he was chosen because of his thick, gritty tone; how his voice would beckon, pursue and dominate; how everything would be done, of course, to keep him comfortable.
And Minor felt incredibly lucky.
And then the man went on to reveal the one meager pitfall. He couldn’t talk to anyone outside of his apartment room and the broadcasting building, and if he did this, a replacement with the exact same tone would be found and he, Minor, would be eliminated.
And the next day he was transported to a new city and a new apartment.
And within the next few months he was taught all about this new job of his.
And finally he debuted as Vox Vocis to the people, and quite the impact he made.
And soon Vox Vocis was the most idolized person on the face of the earth.
————————————————————————————————————
To Minor, it really wasn’t that bad. He had many qualms at first, like any sane person would have—the notion of not being able to talk to anyone out of his own free will, for instance, completely terrified him. But the more he thought about it and the more he became accustomed to it, the better he felt about it all. He enjoyed it, actually. Truly, this life was better than the life he had led before. He thought about it: a parking lot attendee vs. the most influential person on the planet; a future with no hope vs. a completely secure future without any worries about food or rent; being lonely vs. being lonely with a purpose. Yes, indeed, this was the better life for him.
And when he walked to the subway and people bumped and pushed and cursed him like your average man, he simply shrugged it off. Had these people known who he really was, they would be treating him like royalty. And when he felt like an insignificant nobody floating in a torturous void, all he had to do was reason with himself. He really was the most important human on earth. He could have anyone do anything on a whim: Die for him. Kill for him.
And yes, the obsessive adulations never came directly to him, and he could never feel that pleasure of first handedly basking in all the glory. But then he taught himself to cope. And he thought to himself, all the credit was simply given to him circuitously. It may not seem like it at times, but it was; it was he that made all of this possible. It was just the way in which things were set up that he didn’t get incessantly bombarded with praise. And whenever he became unbearably lonely, he would just have to think of this incredible metamorphosis that he was blessed with. Most people, he would told himself, endlessly search to be accepted and valued in life—and to no avail, more often than not. But he had already found his purpose. He was more accepted and valued than any other being on this planet!
No, he really was. It just wasn’t in the conventional sense that his acceptance and praise came.
Just not in the conventional sense…
————————————————————————————————————
Eight months into the ordeal, Minor took the step for some necessary company. He asked the Government committee if he could have a dog, and the very next day, a small ball of fluff with legs arrived at his apartment. And, immediately, an incredibly tight relationship was formed. Minor squeezed every opportunity out of his new friend, and often he found himself prattling long into the night to the creature. The little tyke never once complained. In the meantime, the committee said that they could get some women to spend the night with him every so often. A different girl every week, perhaps. But Minor didn’t comply; he never was that type of person. And besides, at the moment he was satisfied with his dog and the boundless amounts of books and movies that he had requested for awhile back and that had already arrived at his apartment.
And that was another thing! In his past life, he never had time to delve into the hobbies he so enjoyed; now, with only having to broadcast once a day, Minor had all the free time in the world! He painted, he read, he listened to music. He even started to cook, something he had always wanted to do. Yes, this new life was certainly for the best.
————————————————————————————————————
The days, months and years dragged on, and the list of books on Minor’s to-read list got smaller and smaller; the list of movies on his to-watch list dwindled as well. And he fell into a routine; each day he tirelessly did the same thing: he got up, went to work, came back from work, and then had an abundant amount of time to himself. He usually took a nap right when he got home, drawing the curtains wide open and letting the warm, fresh sunlight stream onto his body that he sprawled out onto the couch. And after this he would usually take the dog for a walk and talk to it—but only in the absence of bystanders, of course. He had named his rambunctious pal, too: Franklin. And he would talk so much to Franklin about everything and anything that he soon began to hear vocal responses from it, but he also began to neglect his painting duties. But there was no matter. The subjects to his paintings had already become dry; always Minor would end up composing a scene filled with the people on the street below his five-story window, interacting with one another.
Interacting.
He would usually close his blinds sometime during the late afternoon and read by candlelight. He never knew why, but he just read better without the distractions of the natural, outside world. He generally read for lengthy intervals, but lately his reading shifts had waned. The amount of books to read had gone down, yes, but reading just no longer offered him that special comfort. He couldn’t get attached to the characters. They all seemed so distant. Also, he had nobody to discuss the books with. He read The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky and he loved it. But there were parts that he just didn’t understand; he really wished that he could talk with somebody about it, and get down to all the details of it.
And then it would turn nighttime, and Minor would put on some music and begin to cook. He had gotten quite brilliant at cooking. His variety of cuisine was a variety that could not be found in even the most prestigious of restaurants. He so wanted to boast about his newly found culinary talents, to brag that yes, he had made that wonderful meal and—what, this is the best food you’ve ever tasted in your life?—why, thank you, I try my best. He wanted brag to his Aunt Sally, the one who cooked at all the family gatherings, or even to his mom. A long time ago his mom had given up on trying to teach him how to cook, and a revelation like this would indeed turn her world upside down.
He ignored this urge though, but it still waded in the back of his mind. One dreadful night he found himself at his work study vehemently hatching out a plan to cook a grand meal and then donate it to the local homeless shelter and observe in the background how his food was received by the vagrants. He expected a celebration, a festival of happy vagrants! But he promptly shook himself out of this trance and took a cold shower. And from then on Franklin sat at the dinner table and Franklin sampled his meals and Franklin, he was sure, loved his food. And Franklin’s gratitude was good enough for him.
Far good enough.
As he got tired, he would lay in his bed with the lights on, thinking of everything. Thinking of his life, and his life before. Thinking of things like that abandoned shack he and his friend Mikey had found deep in the woods when they were kids. Thinking of the future. Thinking if he was happy.
But he soon stopped this; thinking became too much of a painful burden to him.
————————————————————————————————————
As he walked out of the subway station one day and turned in the direction of his apartment building seven blocks away, Minor happened to come across an old tape recorder resting atop a heap of junk in a trash bin. He picked it up and thought to himself, boy, could I have some fun with this. And for the next week or so the tape recorder was the source of his entertainment.
He started off by recording himself practicing and refining the voice of Vox Vocis, strictly in the name of business. He would read the broadcast scripts the Government committee printed off for him, the scripts that were color-coated to indicate which emotion he was to convey. He felt he needed to practice the red sections the most. Red indicated anger:
“This man, John Philips, is nothing but a ruthless criminal! A turncoat! He is dangerous! My comrades… this silliness from John Philips needs to end.”
But that got old very quick. So he tried something else. He tried extending his voice to the highest possible key and recording a phrase:
“Hi, my name is Gary, I drive a taxi cab and brew my own beer. What’s your name?”
And then Minor would replay the phrase and answer to it in his normal voice:
“Hi, my name is Riley, I like to watch hockey and I have a dog named Franklin.”
And he would do this for hours: record a phrase, answer it, record another phrase, answer it.
But the tape recorder unexpectedly died out one day, and his fun was over.
————————————————————————————————————
The government committee kept close tabs on Minor. Every day, an agent would come to his apartment and ask Minor if he needed anything—groceries, dog food, soap. He felt that the agent wasn’t only checking up on if he needed things. And often, when Minor went out to walk Franklin, he felt the strange sensation of being watch and followed. He almost felt as if the only place where he had any genuine privacy was when he took the subway between his apartment and the broadcast building; there he had meticulously scrutinized every last person for weeks, and he was positive that not one had worked for the Government.
And it is in this subway coop that something happened.
He had hardly noticed the lady next to him that day, as he was lulled into a hypnotization by the walls and lights that zoomed past through the window in front of him. And he had hardly noticed, when the subway stopped, the lady get up and shuffle to the exit. But coincidentally, he looked in her direction just before she left, and he noticed the large brown purse sitting right under the seat of where she had been sitting.
And on impulse, without even thinking, Riley shouted with urgency towards the woman:
“Ma’am! You forgot your purse. Ma’am!”
The woman spun around with a startled look. She stood agape and looked at him.
“Your purse,” Riley offered in a tiny, cordial tone, pointing to the brown bag on the ground.
The lady shook out of her stupor.
“I could have sworn,” she began as she scooped up her bag, “I could have sworn that I just heard His Voice.”
The only thing Riley could think of doing was smiling as best as he could.
“Oops! Better go! Thanks!”
And the lady rushed out just before the automatic doors forcefully sealed shut. And on the platform, she gazed at Riley, and he gazed back, until the train veered out of sight.
It took about ten seconds after this for Minor to realize what he had done: he had talked to somebody! He glanced nervously at the commuters around him, peering at their figures to detect whether or not any of them were from the Government.
And then he saw a young, slender man of business attire loafing in the corner to the left of him. And he remembered that that man had glanced at him a minute ago. And the more Minor watched him, the more clues he was able to pick up on: were those wires in his front coat pocket? Is he palming some sort of radio? Is that a gun?
And to anyone that could see Minor at this time, a nervous wreck who was uncontrollably twittering and sweating could be seen.
And Minor was so distraught that he got off one stop too early. And Minor rushed to his house like an overzealous manic, immediately locking himself in his bedroom when he got back to his apartment. And here, Minor fretted for hours.
How would it happen? he thought to himself. When would they do it? Would they talk to me first? Would they give me a warning?
And he didn’t sleep a wink.
But nothing happened. The morning arrived, and it arrived like any other morning. All that week, Minor walked around in intense paranoia, but nothing happened. But even so, his dilemma stealthily leaked out: to anyone who was keen at spotting the slightest changes in vocal measurement, for a week the voice of Vox Vocis was slightly off; slightly a little less confident than usual; slightly a little more uncertain.
The weeks went by, and still nothing happened to Minor. So, he concluded that the subway was a safe zone. It was his haven, his one place of absolute security.
And he saw her again.
And he talked to her.
And he spilled out words and rambled on to her.
And he made her laugh.
“I haven’t had a marshmallow in an eternity!” he once said to her.
He was careful not to utter anything about his job, although he was incredibly tempted to; she just seemed so interested that his voice sounded so much similar to His. And he saw her on the subway every day after work, and every time he would talk to her.
One evening at the dinner table he exclaimed to Franklin about her: “She’s the one! I know it! I just know it, I have that gut feeling!”
And everything was great.
But one day Riley turned a corner, and he was never seen nor heard from again.
And for the week after Riley disappeared, Vox Vocis didn’t broadcast. Rumors flew across the country that the he was dreadfully ill, and that he had a slim margin at living.
But finally, Vox Vocis resumed his broadcasts.
And a man by the name of Warren Giel disappeared, and a week later, his body was salvaged from the nearest river.
The Voice
At the ripe age of twenty-five years old, on his morning voyage to work, a fellow by the name of Riley Cheever was plucked from the greasy streets and whisked away into oblivion. A week later, to the distress of his family and friends, his body was salvaged from the depths of the nearest river. A nice little funeral procession was held for the poor man, and people wept over the tragedy of this young one’s unfortunate demise.
Years down the road, these same people who lamented at the funeral were faintly reminded of Riley every now and then, namely during the daily broadcasts of their beloved Government headship, Vox Vocis. They could never quite put their fingers on it, but something oddly familiar about Riley was present during these celebrated broadcast sessions. However, soon enough, any resemblance was dismissed, and the memories of Riley’s time here on earth slowly faded away into the forgotten.
Coincidentally, Vox Vocis was introduced to the public as the Government leader just a few months after the disappearance of Riley Cheever. This fact made Riley’s parents especially mournful for their son’s death: he was never able to hear the impeccable voice of Vox Vocis! And millions of others felt the same of their lost loved ones of the past, whose lives weren’t quite consummated without having heard the angelic and booming voice of the god-like—mysterious as well, but god-like nonetheless—man.
For, really, the whole story of Vox Vocis is quite a mystery; his whole character, in fact, is shrouded with anonymity. He is never seen in public and very few pictures of him even exist. The only palpable thing about him is his voice, but really that is more than enough, for it his voice alone that enthralls, that captivates and that mesmerizes the masses. That formidable voice is utmost power, and it resonates thunderously throughout the land. Every last person is filled with fear, rapture and awe upon hearing it. Whatever Vox Vocis wants is done. He is comfort. He is wisdom. He is the emblem of the nation.
But again to the story of Riley Cheever. Riley, as a matter of fact, did not die. He was more than alive. What happened on that day of his disappearance was simple: he turned a corner, he fell into the arms of three burly men, a blindfold and hand were draped over his eyes and mouth, and he was taken to an undisclosed building. Here he was detained for a week in a room where not even the dimmest speck of sunlight could reach, and then suddenly a group of bureaucratic-looking men knocked on the door and brought him into another room with a table and chair in it. And then they talked to him and revealed his situation. And here is how it went:
“Sit down,” a voice commanded to Riley.
Riley obeyed.
“Mr. Cheever—well, first things first, that is not your name anymore.”
Riley nodded.
“You shall be addressed as Minor and Minor alone. Do you understand?”
Minor nodded.
“Minor, I want you know just how lucky you are. I don’t think you know that yet, do you?”
Minor shook his head.
“Do you follow politics?”
“N-n-no, sir,” Minor squeaked.
“Well surely you are aware of the recent changes in administration?”
“Y-y-yes, sir.”
“Good. Well then you should know this government’s creed. The people’s creed, I should say, for we were elected by their votes and their sense.”
A pause followed, and Minor, without knowing what to do, timidly nodded his head.
“In the coming years this government will lead our nation to the top. These past governments”—the man shook his head at this—“they have shattered our reputation and dropped us to the bottom. But now we have strength, and triumph shall come! We have a newly found ability for decision, action, and grit, and this will lead our nation back to where it belongs, back to where it used to be!”
The man coughed into his shoulder at this pointed. He then stared for several moments directly into the eyes Minor. He continued:
“And do you know how you fit into all of this, Minor?”
Minor shook his head.
“This government shall have only a voice as its definitive leader. A newborn child need only its mother’s voice to cease its wailing, and the same ploy shall be used here. Do you see?”
Minor nodded his head.
“A level of mystique and incomprehensibleness is to be utilized in this new administration, and a voice and nothing more will provide this.”
The man paused. Minor waited.
“And that voice will be yours.”
And the man went on to tell him about the specifics of the scheme: how he, Minor, would broadcast everyday to the people as the fictitious Vox Vocis; how he was chosen because of his thick, gritty tone; how his voice would beckon, pursue and dominate; how everything would be done, of course, to keep him comfortable.
And Minor felt incredibly lucky.
And then the man went on to reveal the one meager pitfall. He couldn’t talk to anyone outside of his apartment room and the broadcasting building, and if he did this, a replacement with the exact same tone would be found and he, Minor, would be eliminated.
And the next day he was transported to a new city and a new apartment.
And within the next few months he was taught all about this new job of his.
And finally he debuted as Vox Vocis to the people, and quite the impact he made.
And soon Vox Vocis was the most idolized person on the face of the earth.
————————————————————————————————————
To Minor, it really wasn’t that bad. He had many qualms at first, like any sane person would have—the notion of not being able to talk to anyone out of his own free will, for instance, completely terrified him. But the more he thought about it and the more he became accustomed to it, the better he felt about it all. He enjoyed it, actually. Truly, this life was better than the life he had led before. He thought about it: a parking lot attendee vs. the most influential person on the planet; a future with no hope vs. a completely secure future without any worries about food or rent; being lonely vs. being lonely with a purpose. Yes, indeed, this was the better life for him.
And when he walked to the subway and people bumped and pushed and cursed him like your average man, he simply shrugged it off. Had these people known who he really was, they would be treating him like royalty. And when he felt like an insignificant nobody floating in a torturous void, all he had to do was reason with himself. He really was the most important human on earth. He could have anyone do anything on a whim: Die for him. Kill for him.
And yes, the obsessive adulations never came directly to him, and he could never feel that pleasure of first handedly basking in all the glory. But then he taught himself to cope. And he thought to himself, all the credit was simply given to him circuitously. It may not seem like it at times, but it was; it was he that made all of this possible. It was just the way in which things were set up that he didn’t get incessantly bombarded with praise. And whenever he became unbearably lonely, he would just have to think of this incredible metamorphosis that he was blessed with. Most people, he would told himself, endlessly search to be accepted and valued in life—and to no avail, more often than not. But he had already found his purpose. He was more accepted and valued than any other being on this planet!
No, he really was. It just wasn’t in the conventional sense that his acceptance and praise came.
Just not in the conventional sense…
————————————————————————————————————
Eight months into the ordeal, Minor took the step for some necessary company. He asked the Government committee if he could have a dog, and the very next day, a small ball of fluff with legs arrived at his apartment. And, immediately, an incredibly tight relationship was formed. Minor squeezed every opportunity out of his new friend, and often he found himself prattling long into the night to the creature. The little tyke never once complained. In the meantime, the committee said that they could get some women to spend the night with him every so often. A different girl every week, perhaps. But Minor didn’t comply; he never was that type of person. And besides, at the moment he was satisfied with his dog and the boundless amounts of books and movies that he had requested for awhile back and that had already arrived at his apartment.
And that was another thing! In his past life, he never had time to delve into the hobbies he so enjoyed; now, with only having to broadcast once a day, Minor had all the free time in the world! He painted, he read, he listened to music. He even started to cook, something he had always wanted to do. Yes, this new life was certainly for the best.
————————————————————————————————————
The days, months and years dragged on, and the list of books on Minor’s to-read list got smaller and smaller; the list of movies on his to-watch list dwindled as well. And he fell into a routine; each day he tirelessly did the same thing: he got up, went to work, came back from work, and then had an abundant amount of time to himself. He usually took a nap right when he got home, drawing the curtains wide open and letting the warm, fresh sunlight stream onto his body that he sprawled out onto the couch. And after this he would usually take the dog for a walk and talk to it—but only in the absence of bystanders, of course. He had named his rambunctious pal, too: Franklin. And he would talk so much to Franklin about everything and anything that he soon began to hear vocal responses from it, but he also began to neglect his painting duties. But there was no matter. The subjects to his paintings had already become dry; always Minor would end up composing a scene filled with the people on the street below his five-story window, interacting with one another.
Interacting.
He would usually close his blinds sometime during the late afternoon and read by candlelight. He never knew why, but he just read better without the distractions of the natural, outside world. He generally read for lengthy intervals, but lately his reading shifts had waned. The amount of books to read had gone down, yes, but reading just no longer offered him that special comfort. He couldn’t get attached to the characters. They all seemed so distant. Also, he had nobody to discuss the books with. He read The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky and he loved it. But there were parts that he just didn’t understand; he really wished that he could talk with somebody about it, and get down to all the details of it.
And then it would turn nighttime, and Minor would put on some music and begin to cook. He had gotten quite brilliant at cooking. His variety of cuisine was a variety that could not be found in even the most prestigious of restaurants. He so wanted to boast about his newly found culinary talents, to brag that yes, he had made that wonderful meal and—what, this is the best food you’ve ever tasted in your life?—why, thank you, I try my best. He wanted brag to his Aunt Sally, the one who cooked at all the family gatherings, or even to his mom. A long time ago his mom had given up on trying to teach him how to cook, and a revelation like this would indeed turn her world upside down.
He ignored this urge though, but it still waded in the back of his mind. One dreadful night he found himself at his work study vehemently hatching out a plan to cook a grand meal and then donate it to the local homeless shelter and observe in the background how his food was received by the vagrants. He expected a celebration, a festival of happy vagrants! But he promptly shook himself out of this trance and took a cold shower. And from then on Franklin sat at the dinner table and Franklin sampled his meals and Franklin, he was sure, loved his food. And Franklin’s gratitude was good enough for him.
Far good enough.
As he got tired, he would lay in his bed with the lights on, thinking of everything. Thinking of his life, and his life before. Thinking of things like that abandoned shack he and his friend Mikey had found deep in the woods when they were kids. Thinking of the future. Thinking if he was happy.
But he soon stopped this; thinking became too much of a painful burden to him.
————————————————————————————————————
As he walked out of the subway station one day and turned in the direction of his apartment building seven blocks away, Minor happened to come across an old tape recorder resting atop a heap of junk in a trash bin. He picked it up and thought to himself, boy, could I have some fun with this. And for the next week or so the tape recorder was the source of his entertainment.
He started off by recording himself practicing and refining the voice of Vox Vocis, strictly in the name of business. He would read the broadcast scripts the Government committee printed off for him, the scripts that were color-coated to indicate which emotion he was to convey. He felt he needed to practice the red sections the most. Red indicated anger:
“This man, John Philips, is nothing but a ruthless criminal! A turncoat! He is dangerous! My comrades… this silliness from John Philips needs to end.”
But that got old very quick. So he tried something else. He tried extending his voice to the highest possible key and recording a phrase:
“Hi, my name is Gary, I drive a taxi cab and brew my own beer. What’s your name?”
And then Minor would replay the phrase and answer to it in his normal voice:
“Hi, my name is Riley, I like to watch hockey and I have a dog named Franklin.”
And he would do this for hours: record a phrase, answer it, record another phrase, answer it.
But the tape recorder unexpectedly died out one day, and his fun was over.
————————————————————————————————————
The government committee kept close tabs on Minor. Every day, an agent would come to his apartment and ask Minor if he needed anything—groceries, dog food, soap. He felt that the agent wasn’t only checking up on if he needed things. And often, when Minor went out to walk Franklin, he felt the strange sensation of being watch and followed. He almost felt as if the only place where he had any genuine privacy was when he took the subway between his apartment and the broadcast building; there he had meticulously scrutinized every last person for weeks, and he was positive that not one had worked for the Government.
And it is in this subway coop that something happened.
He had hardly noticed the lady next to him that day, as he was lulled into a hypnotization by the walls and lights that zoomed past through the window in front of him. And he had hardly noticed, when the subway stopped, the lady get up and shuffle to the exit. But coincidentally, he looked in her direction just before she left, and he noticed the large brown purse sitting right under the seat of where she had been sitting.
And on impulse, without even thinking, Riley shouted with urgency towards the woman:
“Ma’am! You forgot your purse. Ma’am!”
The woman spun around with a startled look. She stood agape and looked at him.
“Your purse,” Riley offered in a tiny, cordial tone, pointing to the brown bag on the ground.
The lady shook out of her stupor.
“I could have sworn,” she began as she scooped up her bag, “I could have sworn that I just heard His Voice.”
The only thing Riley could think of doing was smiling as best as he could.
“Oops! Better go! Thanks!”
And the lady rushed out just before the automatic doors forcefully sealed shut. And on the platform, she gazed at Riley, and he gazed back, until the train veered out of sight.
It took about ten seconds after this for Minor to realize what he had done: he had talked to somebody! He glanced nervously at the commuters around him, peering at their figures to detect whether or not any of them were from the Government.
And then he saw a young, slender man of business attire loafing in the corner to the left of him. And he remembered that that man had glanced at him a minute ago. And the more Minor watched him, the more clues he was able to pick up on: were those wires in his front coat pocket? Is he palming some sort of radio? Is that a gun?
And to anyone that could see Minor at this time, a nervous wreck who was uncontrollably twittering and sweating could be seen.
And Minor was so distraught that he got off one stop too early. And Minor rushed to his house like an overzealous manic, immediately locking himself in his bedroom when he got back to his apartment. And here, Minor fretted for hours.
How would it happen? he thought to himself. When would they do it? Would they talk to me first? Would they give me a warning?
And he didn’t sleep a wink.
But nothing happened. The morning arrived, and it arrived like any other morning. All that week, Minor walked around in intense paranoia, but nothing happened. But even so, his dilemma stealthily leaked out: to anyone who was keen at spotting the slightest changes in vocal measurement, for a week the voice of Vox Vocis was slightly off; slightly a little less confident than usual; slightly a little more uncertain.
The weeks went by, and still nothing happened to Minor. So, he concluded that the subway was a safe zone. It was his haven, his one place of absolute security.
And he saw her again.
And he talked to her.
And he spilled out words and rambled on to her.
And he made her laugh.
“I haven’t had a marshmallow in an eternity!” he once said to her.
He was careful not to utter anything about his job, although he was incredibly tempted to; she just seemed so interested that his voice sounded so much similar to His. And he saw her on the subway every day after work, and every time he would talk to her.
One evening at the dinner table he exclaimed to Franklin about her: “She’s the one! I know it! I just know it, I have that gut feeling!”
And everything was great.
But one day Riley turned a corner, and he was never seen nor heard from again.
And for the week after Riley disappeared, Vox Vocis didn’t broadcast. Rumors flew across the country that the he was dreadfully ill, and that he had a slim margin at living.
But finally, Vox Vocis resumed his broadcasts.
And a man by the name of Warren Giel disappeared, and a week later, his body was salvaged from the nearest river.