Other Worlds Were Possible, page 32
Sunny paused to stare at a female Woggy. Such creatures did exist! Although that woman did look a tad peculiar; like most of the male Wogies, only with a little less facial hair. She was also doing something peculiar; planting her lips upon a man’s face, and inserting her tongue into his mouth. The horror! Sunny supposed she must have been eating that man’s insides.
It was little wonder that the Wogies had fled their homeland. They were trying to escape from their women! Sunny could not help but feel grateful to the likes of Hope, who had never tried to eat him.
Behind that woman and her victim, Sunny could just about see his kinfolk, who were being forced to watch; separated from the rest of the throng, surrounded by an armed gang. They had not been tried, which was a relief. But they were still in shackles and chains.
Sunny could not locate the youngsters. Perhaps they were too short to be seen. But he had a niggling suspicion that they had been carted away to one of the Wogies’ “Boarding schools”; those child colonies, where they would be groomed to think like Wogies, do Woggy-style work, and worship the Woggy’s God.
A single tree still remained in this square; an evergreen with a bulbous crown. Its very existence was strangely reassuring; a reminder of Mother Nature’s presence, and a not-too-distant past, when they lived on this land alone.
Sunny felt its cool embrace. He inhaled its scent; honey-laced and moreish.
Sunny assumed that the Wogies could not smell that aroma. For if they had experienced its sentimental tang, their spirits would have softened, their eyes would have watered, and they would have been rendered incapable of violence. But it was such a subtle aroma, thinner than the air. It was all too easy to miss.
How had it come to this?
Surely this was not the end. Surely the tribe would unite, form an army, stage an invasion, overpower the Wogies, and set their people free.
Yippee! Here we go!
For the sweetest of moments, Sunny supposed those cheers were for him. Yes, that had to be it! A tribal army had come to liberate their clan.
What a fool he had been. The natives and Wogies were cheering together. But they were not cheering Sunny. They were cheering the hangman, who had performed a theatrical bow.
That person did not appear altogether human. For sure, he had a face, with a nose and a mouth, as you might expect to find on a regular person. And yes, he had arms, shoulders, a torso, and a pair of matching legs. These body parts were all put together in the normal fashion, although his limbs did bulge at their sockets, as though they had been shunted into position with far more force than was required. And yet something was amiss. His eyes were not quite alive. They were too sunken, too dark; a little too small or large. His face was too gaunt. There was a mound of skin, on either side of his mouth, but it would have been a stretch to call them “Cheeks”. There was no depth, no softness. It was impossible to imagine a smile on his face. It was impossible to suppose that this man had lungs, which enabled him to breathe, or a heart, which pumped blood around his body.
But he did have the crowd’s approval:
Yippee! Here we go!
The human-esque creature made another theatrical swoop, swooshing his arm out to the side. He held it at a right angle to his chest; allowing a black cloth to hang down, wing-like and square.
He opened his palm, to present Sunny to the crowd.
Boo! Terrorist! Off with his head!
Sunny spotted Songbird.
He mouthed a question:
“The children?”
“School.”
“The adults?”
“Slavery.”
“On a… Err… Plantation?”
“Here. Removing ancestral forests.”
A steaming pot of water was placed by Sunny’s feet. He recognised that vessel, glanced at Songbird, and saw her tense a cheek.
Sunny was not offended. It was strangely reassuring to know that his hand would be boiled in a pot which had been made by someone he loved. He understood that the experience would be just as painful. But he felt comforted by the idea that he was being assaulted for honouring their tribe’s traditions, in a place which had always been their home, beneath this native tree, using a pot which his friend had made. The Wogies could squat upon this land. They could exploit it, ravage it, and turn it into a wasteland. But they would always be surrounded by things which were not theirs, which would never be theirs, which they would never understand, and which would never love them back.
Fingernails pinched the skin beneath his shoulders; digging in beneath the bone, and shunting him onto his knees.
The hangman, now just a blackish blur, gripped hold of Sunny’s arm.
Sunny did not resist. He allowed his hand to be plunged into the scalding water, as the crowd hollered, and as the air turned sticky with noise. He was determined to act with grace; without a simper or scream. And in this, he was partially successful.
Then he spotted Chief Judge, and that cloud-like monstrosity on his head. Sunny could not help but giggle, then chortle, then guffaw.
His laughter and screams merged into a single, diabolical noise. Sunny looked possessed; as though he was enjoying his pain, and was pained by his joy. He was both agonized and numb, ecstatic and detached; an impossible combination of things, which had no real right to exist.
Blood vessels appeared in his eyes, accelerating outwards in zags and bolts. His hair frizzed with static. His cheeks spasmed with ecstasy and pain.
His hand was removed from the water, and Sunny exhaled. The worst of it was over. His ordeal was nearly done.
But the hangman did not appear ready to move on.
A second pot was carried onto the stage, fresh from the fire. It looked much the same as the first pot. Only this one was slightly bigger.
The water was thick with steam.
Sunny was unsure what was about to happen. Chief Judge had said he would be treated the same way that his kinfolk had treated the spy. His hand had already been boiled, and now it had to be cut. There was no need for a second pot.
He felt a force press down upon his shoulders, driving him forwards and downwards; dunking his head into the pot. Perhaps Sunny screamed. He could not be sure. The water had rendered him mute; forming a wall through which no sound could possibly pass.
The pain was real. Or then again, perhaps it was not. It hurt so much, it did not really hurt at all. His skin was on fire. His fat was melting. His face was sliding from his skull. But his nerve endings had burnt on impact, and he had lost the ability to feel pain.
His vision blurred into tufts of white upon silver.
He retained the ability to smell, although it took him a while to identify what he was smelling. It was not that the scent confused him. He recognised the tang of boiled meat and burnt blood. It was more the way those aromas hit him. They did not waft up his nostrils, in the manner to which he was accustomed. His nostrils and lips had melted, gluing themselves together. Rather, those odours seemed to be emanating from within his nose. He was smelling his own insides, his own decomposing body, his own molten flesh.
It smelled delicious.
Was that wrong? Was it wrong to enjoy one’s death? Surely, a person could allow themselves a little pleasure, once their end was all but assured.
His head was yanked from the water.
He tried to breathe; pulling his lips apart, leaving shreds of skin in all the wrong places; jagged, bloodless and raw.
He bit off a chunk of air, which caused him to endure the most outlandish sensation; a perfect blend of agony and endorphins.
All was so white, it was black.
He saw something now. Someone he recognised was riding towards him, standing atop the largest buffalo he had ever seen. It was Hope! Of that, there could be no doubt. Her arms were thumping the sky. The buffalo’s hooves were pounding the earth, throwing up puffs of ash and smoke. And now that smoke was fading. And now his vision was clear. Hope was not alone. She was accompanied by a thousand other natives. No, there were two thousand. No, there were ten thousand natives, riding atop ten-thousand buffaloes. Here was the other half of their clan. Here were Beetle, Protectress and Bear. Here were the Dog Clan, and every other clan in their tribe. Here were the neighbouring tribes. They had united, for the first time in history. They were riding together; waging war on the Woggy hoards.
All was so white, it was black.
Sunny could see that army approach. He could hear the ground vibrate. He could feel the buildings tremble.
This would soon be over. The Wogies would be vanquished. His people would be free.
“For the crimes of attempted murder, terrorism and treason: You, Sunny Eagle, shall be hung until you’re dead.”
He was being lifted; supported under his armpits, and dragged up onto a step.
“Hung until you’re dead.”
The tribal army must have been close. Sunny could not see them. But he was certain they would arrive at any moment.
“May the Lord, in his love and mercy, help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit.”
All was so white, it was black.
“May the Lord, who frees you from sin, save you and raise you up.”
Something was placed around Sunny’s neck.
“Praise be unto the Lord!”
The tribal army appeared. They were in this very square.
But wait…
It was not an army at all. It was a single person: Hope’s baby girl. She had transformed into a giant; taller than a mountain, and wider than a cloud. She was holding a bow, loaded with ten-thousand arrows. She was lofting it above her head. She was taking aim.
“God is love!”
The world was removed from beneath Sunny’s feet.
He could feel himself fall, in the slowest and quickest of motions.
And he could hear a familiar voice:
“Brother-o. Oh brother! What fun we could’ve had. We could’ve worn silk and pearls; eaten pastries, muffins and crumpets. We could’ve travelled the world by train. Yes, brother. Our masters are bringing us trains! I’ve seen them myself, in the Faraway Lands, where people never die. And now we’ll have them here. Trains! Wow! Trains!
“If only you’d stayed alive. There’ll be trains on this colonial land. Wow! What a wonderful, wondrous gift!”
ALSO BY JOSS SHELDON…
DEMOCRACY
A USER’S GUIDE
THEY SAY WE LIVE IN A DEMOCRACY. WE ARE FREE AND WE SHOULD BE GRATEFUL.
But just how "Free" are we? How democratic are our so-called "Democracies"?
Is it enough to simply elect our leaders and sit back, helpless, as they rule over us like dictators? What good is selecting our politicians, if we cannot control our media, police or soldiers? If we must blindly follow our teachers' and bosses' commands, whilst at school and in the workplace, is it not a little naïve to believe that we are the masters of our own destinies? And if our resources are controlled by a tiny cabal of plutocrats, bankers and corporations; can we honestly say that our economies are being run for us?
Could things not be a little bit more, well, democratic?
Indeed they can! “Democracy: A User's Guide” shows us how...
Within the pages of this story-filled book, we shall visit Summerhill, a democratic school in the east of England, before stopping off in Brazil to check out Semco, where workplace democracy is the name of the game. We will travel to Rojava, to explore life in a democratic army, and head to Spain, to see why Podemos is giving liquid democracy a go. We shall travel back in time, to see democracy at work in hunter-gatherer societies, tribal confederacies, the guilds and on the commons. We will consider the case for participatory budgeting, deliberative democracy, collaborative hiring, community currencies, peer-to-peer lending, and much much more.
The message is clear and concise: Democracy does not have to be a pipe dream. We have all the tools we need to rule ourselves.
ALSO BY JOSS SHELDON…
INDIVIDUTOPIA
“One of the most important books of 2018”
The Canary
"One of those books you’ll want to read again and again"
Medium
"A modern classic"
The Dallas Sun
Beloved friend,
The year is 2084, and that famous Margaret Thatcher quote has become a reality: There really is no such thing as society. No one speaks to anyone else. No one looks at anyone else. People don’t collaborate, they only compete.
I hate to admit it, but this has had tragic consequences. Unable to satisfy their social urges, the population has fallen into a pit of depression and anxiety. Suicide has become the norm.
It all sounds rather morbid, does it not? But please don’t despair, there is hope, and it comes in the form of our hero: Renee Ann Blanca. Wishing to fill the society-shaped hole in her life, our Renee does the unthinkable: She goes in search of human company! It’s a radical act and an enormous challenge. But that, I suppose, is why her tale’s worth recounting. It’s as gripping as it is touching, and I think you’re going to love it…
Your trusty narrator,
PP
ALSO BY JOSS SHELDON…
MONEY POWER LOVE
ALL WARS ARE BANKERS’ WARS
"Breathtaking"
The Huffington Post
"Picaresque"
Scottish Left Review
"Unputdownable"
The Avenger
"Strangely kind"
The Tribune
Born on three adjacent beds, a mere three seconds apart, our three heroes are united by nature but divided by nurture. As a result of their different upbringings, they spend their lives chasing three very different things: Money, power and love.
This is a human story: A tale about people like ourselves, cajoled by the whimsy of circumstance, who find themselves performing the most beautiful acts as well as the most vulgar.
This is a historical story: A tale set in the early 1800s, which shines a light on how bankers, with the power to create money out of nothing, were able to shape the world we live in today.
And this is a love story: A tale about three men, who fall in love with the same woman, at the very same time…
ALSO BY JOSS SHELDON…
THE LITTLE VOICE
Can you remember who you were before the world told you who you should be?
“The most thought-provoking novel of 2016”
The Huffington Post
"Radical... A masterclass... Top notch..."
The Canary
"A pretty remarkable feat"
BuzzFeed
Dear reader,
My character has been shaped by two opposing forces; the pressure to conform to social norms, and the pressure to be true to myself. To be honest with you, these forces have really torn me apart. They’ve pulled me one way and then the other. At times, they’ve left me questioning my whole entire existence.
But please don’t think that I’m angry or morose. I’m not. Because through adversity comes knowledge. I’ve suffered, it’s true. But I’ve learnt from my pain. I’ve become a better person.
Now, for the first time, I’m ready to tell my story. Perhaps it will inspire you. Perhaps it will encourage you to think in a whole new way. Perhaps it won’t. There’s only one way to find out…
Enjoy the book,
Yew Shodkin
ALSO BY JOSS SHELDON…
OCCUPIED
SOME PEOPLE LIVE UNDER OCCUPATION
SOME PEOPLE OCCUPY THEMSELVES
NO ONE IS FREE
“A unique piece of literary fiction”
The Examiner
“Candid and disquieting”
Free Tibet
“Genre-busting”
Pak Asia Times
Step into a world which is both magically fictitious and shockingly real, to follow the lives of Tamsin, Ellie, Arun and Charlie; a refugee, native, occupier and economic migrant. Watch them grow up during a halcyon past, everyday present and dystopian future. And be prepared to be amazed.
Inspired by the occupations of Palestine, Kurdistan and Tibet, and by the corporate occupation of the west, ‘Occupied’ is a haunting glance into a society which is a little too familiar for comfort. It truly is a unique piece of literary fiction…
ALSO BY JOSS SHELDON…
INVOLUTION & EVOLUTION
This is the story of Alfred Freeman, a boy who does everything he can; to serve humankind. He feeds five-thousand youths, salves-saves-and-soothes; and champions the maligned. He helps paralytics to feel fine, turns water into wine; and gives sight to the blind.
When World War One draws near, his nation is plunged into fear; and so Alfred makes a stand. He opposes the war and calls for peace, disobeys the police; and speaks out across the land. He makes speeches, and he preaches; using statements which sound grand.
But the authorities hit back, and launch a potent-attack; which is full of disgust-derision-and-disdain. Alfred is threatened with execution, and suffers from persecution; which leaves him writhing in pain. He struggles to survive, remain alive; keep cool and stay sane.
‘Involution & Evolution’ is a masterpiece of rhyme, with a message which echoes through time; and will get inside your head. With colourful-characters and poetic-flair, it is a scathing critique of modern-warfare; and all its gory-bloodshed. It’s a novel which breaks new ground, is sure to astound; and really must be read.
