The Death of an Anarchist

THE DEPARTURE

A shroud of winter fog hang over the valley of death
where he trudged along, lonely as an orphaned ghost,
hands in his pockets, collar upturned,
a light flickering between his lips,
puffs of smoke vanishing in the whiteness abound

His little village now lay behind him,
beyond the eastern horizon,
where a halo of flames danced beneath the morning sun
Fire, Fire, the villagers were screaming
For them he was now dead, engulfed
by the flames that were burning down his hut
And for him they were dead too,
blurred into oblivion by a wall of fog

With his eyes fixed onto nothingness,
his mind empty, his heart heavy with freedom,
he whistled and laughed aloud as he vanished
like a puff of smoke in that white valley of death

This is a very bad poem that you are writing. Or is it prose, I can't even tell the difference. I don't understand what's gotten into you. 8's mother was looking at him with admonition in her sad green eyes, they matched the green dress she was wearing, its frayed sleeves shamelessly revealing their poverty. You don't understand either poetry or prose, grumbled 8 as he gave her the piece of paper. The poem was titled 'The Departure', handwritten and barely legible. Later when you read it alone, you'll understand, he said and went to his room. Do you want something to eat? No, I'm fine, I am going out now. At this hour? It's only 10pm, I will be back soon. 8 brought out a large bag from under his bed and took it out with him. What is in that thing? Must you need to know everything, mom?! Just leave me alone.

The night outside was slightly cold. Lights had gone off in most houses. On Market Street 8 saw a police patrol car and took cover in a dark alley. The detour took him a little longer to get back on Market Street, but when he finally reached the bridge over the expressway, he was relieved to find it empty. On warmer days one could find some drug addicts and drunks sleeping or lying unconscious on the bridge, but today there was none. 8 was in luck. He looked down from the bridge. It spanned across the river and the expressway that ran along its left bank. From the bridge 8 watched the three quivering lines of fast approaching headlights that stretched as far as he could see. On the other side of the white divider were three receding lines of lights, the three eastbound lanes running in the opposite direction, they appeared dimmer. 8 watched the speeding cars for sometime. Mercedes, BMW, Toyota. Rich fucks. Should shoot them down like dogs, he cursed. The expressway reverberated with the sound of a highway freight truck. All the drivers seemed to be speeding towards death, or perhaps trying to escape from it. Yes, they are escaping from it this time for sure, 8 mused as he opened the chain of his bag and brought out an automatic assault rifle. He crouched behind a large road-sign board that was hanging over the expressway from the side of the bridge. The barrel of his rifle was pointing at the passing cars below. The plan had been in place for long and 8 had surveyed the area several times. And now the hour had come for the final act. This is it, 8 muttered to himself. On count to ten: One, Two, Three, Four....

...Five, Six, Seven... Are you feeling better now? Try to get some sleep. I am trying to, I was counting sheep, replied 8 with a slight smile. Poor mom!, he thought as he stared at her green eyes, which, as far as he could recall, have always been sad, but uncomplaining, as if they have lost all hope in life. Is pops coming home today? Don't ask me, I don't know, he never tells me anything, go off to sleep now. No, don't go away, please stay a little longer mom, I want to read you a little poem I wrote:

THE TEACHER

In a corner of his empty classroom the teacher sat
reading books that no one in his village had ever read
The villagers respected him, but feared the village elders more
You cannot teach here, our children don't need your knowledge,
the elders told him, scared of losing their hold over the masses
But the teacher knew that the day will come
when knowledge would triumph over ignorance,
when the villagers would wake up to read books written in blood

...Eight, Nine.... The nine of you will only be known by your respective numbers, announced the commander to the nine young men who stood before him in a row (our protagonist was number 8). You are not supposed to use your real names, they are to remain secret from each other. Fancy names are a bourgeois trend, there is no need for that in our ranks and file. Secrecy and loyalty are extremely important for our mission, and remember, no traitor will escape death. Now coming back to our agenda, first, is the plan of action, the commander turned towards his comrade and said, the floor is all yours. The comrade's face was wrapped in a black scarf through which his two eyes were shining brightly, little white hair of his eyebrow lent them a terrifying gleam, like the eyes of a cat. His red badge identified him as number 0, the mastermind. 0 began in his stentorian voice, boys, you are the bravest of men, and the wisest too. We all have only one goal: to send a chill down the spine of those who refuse to stand up and fight against injustice, against the arbitrary violence of society, against its hypocritical notions of morality, and against all the oppressors that thrive in these societies. And to do this, Violence, the most shocking acts of violence, is unavoidable; violence that will rock them off their torpor and send a warning to all around the world. You are the brave ones who will help in achieving this, and through your act of self-sacrifice you will become immortal and live on as a legend.

THE DELIVERANCE

For three weeks the teacher locked himself up in his classroom
where Dostoevsky, Kafka and Turgenev gave him company
No one came to bother him, for them he was an outcast,
a vagabond from an unknown land, a man of no use

When he finished reading all his books, he stepped outside
A new dawn was fighting against the lingering darkness of the previous night,
a shroud of winter fog hang over the valley of death,
stretching between the village and the sleeping mountains around
The spirits of our ancestors live in the valley, the villagers had told him
If you stray there you can never return, their eyes had warned

The teacher locked the classroom door and lit a cigarette
An abyss opened up before him
And as he looked down into its depths
he felt calm and confident, wisdom had finally dawned on him
Through the window he tossed in his burning match-stick,
his pile of books lit up, blazing in a glory of liberation
He walked away, lonely as an orphaned ghost,
hands in his pockets, collar upturned,
a light flickering between his lips,
puffs of smoke vanishing in the whiteness abound
The village burned behind him amidst screams of Fire, Fire

...Ten.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat

Excerpts from a local news report:

A shooting rampage on the P8-I9 Interstate Westbound has left more than 40 people, including a suspected gunman, dead. Officers say that around 10:30 pm last night, the lone gunman fired indiscriminately from an automatic rifle at cars traveling on the interstate, resulting in a pileup involving at least 20 cars. This is the eighth such incident of random acts of violence that have targeted civilians in the last two weeks. Police are investigating the identity of the gunman and have claimed that they have tracked some links to a banned organization behind the attack....

Our reporter has also learned of unconfirmed reports leaked from the Bureau of Investigation that warn about the possibility of a ninth attack of similar nature. Officers across the state have been alerted and citizens are being requested to report any suspicious activity without delay. The Bureau has been under increasing stress from the Home Ministry to hunt down the culprits, but their progress so far has been very limited. Most political analysts agree that if a ninth attack were to occur, the Government may be faced with a popular uprising and the opposition will capitalize on this growing discontent among the citizens. Reports of demonstration, arson and riots are pouring in from several parts of the city. National security and stability has once again become the most important issue for the upcoming elections....

*********

Postscript:

Having finished reading the news report, 9 folded the paper silently, picked up the bag that had his gun and walked out of his apartment. He rubbed his palms together to warm them, turned up his collar and pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his frayed gray jacket. As he lit a match-stick and brought it close to the cigarette which he held between his lips, a cold breeze kissed his cheeks fervently like a jealous lover reluctant to let him go. He walked down an empty alley towards the busy railway station, wondering if he will be able to prove himself to be as brave as the eight other boys.

"The simplest surrealist act consists of dashing down into the street, pistol in hand, and firing blindly, as fast as you can pull the trigger, into the crowd" - Andre Breton.

(Credits: The plot about shooting randomly at cars on a highway was a product of a discussion with SC after a night of few drinks and libertine talks.)