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Novelo Rectangle

♯&nbsp;An unexpected gift from a secret Santa arrived; the drab looking cardboard box sat lonely on a porch - the package was perfectly safe as no-one stole from doorsteps anymore. A stark, gun-metal grey delivery van pulled away showing a bold white letter i covering the back doors. The lower case i was simple yet effective and everyone knew what it was - it was everywhere. Julia opened the box. Cradling the new smart-scales she purchased yesterday was the usual squashed up protective packaging. As she scooped out the wrapping, she froze, her eyes wide as she saw the words scrawled roughly on the inside of the box: secret san♯a.&nbsp; ♯♯♯&nbsp; Sydney’s heart was beating so loudly and out of time he thought he was going to be stopped before he even got started - arrested for crimes against rhythm. He lovingly stroked the rough grain of the wood on the bass guitar and, pulling the strap over his shoulder, nestled the body of the instrument into his torso, close to his pounding chest. Fear flowed through him; his hands were trembling and his palms were sweaty. He had never played in front of anybody else before and quite naturally, did not think he ever would. Stanley, or Stan the man as his friends called him, looked around the basement at the faces of the four gathered to play together. Steph sat cross-legged; an African drum between her legs. Eta perched on the edge of a threadbare sofa; a classical guitar for company. Stan stood; his cracked old acoustic guitar older than he was. If only that guitar could talk - or sing - it would have some stories to tell. Before every assembly they were always nervous, afraid of the unknown as they gathered themselves to bare all and turn their souls inside out. Just being here was enough of a risk. Stan ran his fingers over the lines etched into the guitar and cleared his throat, ‘one, two, three, four…’ From the smothering silence, life sprang forth in the shape of sound. Syd held his nerve, running up and down the scales. Bom, bom, bom, bom. His foot tapping and his head bobbing, a smile arched across his face - pulling at the muscles he rarely used. Steph fell into line, tapping out a slow yet soulful rhythm which was perfectly synced with Syd’s bassy resonance. A well-oiled pair, Stan and Eta came in on the next bar. Stan laid down a chugga-chugga, chugga-chugga edgy strumming sequence, layering over the deep groove underneath. Like a bird soaring free, Eta’s fingers flew over the strings plucking and releasing an energy so visceral, yet so hauntingly ethereal, that it lifted the collective to another level to taste the freedom they all craved.&nbsp; ♯♯♯&nbsp; A young man with a big chip balanced precariously on small shoulders strode towards Sydney, who was stood idly near his station. ‘Mr Flynn,’ he demanded, ‘get back to work. These packages won’t send themselves.’ The factory complex was huge, larger than most cities, and needed a strict set of hands to run the operation efficiently. Staring down from all angles, the ubiquitous i was etched tall into the huge steel walls, but recessed slightly, giving the impression the walls were constructed around the i. ‘Yes sir, Mr Felici.’ Sydney responded. He turned back to his task of picking items, packing boxes, and sending them down the conveyor belt towards the van packers. Sydney and his cohort were unofficially called the stuff shifters; they shifted stuff all day and all night long. And this quarter was particularly busy, as it always was - some traditions were harder to eradicate than others. But they can be controlled. ‘That was close.’ Sydney whispered to Stanley, who worked in the same assignment. Everyone worked in the i somewhere or other; it was the only gig in town. Someone once said it was easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism. Today it was accepted that the world had already ended, and the i had fought to put it back together again. Capitalism was long gone. As Sydney zoned out to his mindless tasks, he found his mind wandering, re-living basement basslines and dreaming of actually singing in front of others, or was that a step too far? Lost in thought, Sydney started to tap his foot. Stanley looked over sharply. Jumping on his own internal groove, Sydney started to let out a little whistle, almost undetectable, but it was there. Mr Felici stormed over. ‘Flynn! What in the hell are you doing!’ Sydney snapped to attention. ‘I’m so sorry sir, I have no idea what came over me.’ Sydney was sweating. Stanley was sweating. Mr Felici was sweating. Mr Felici glanced nervously around upper tier twelve and squared up to Sydney. ‘You’re lucky it’s me in charge today, if one of the others caught you…’ Sydney stared at the floor. ‘My deepest apologies sir.’ ‘Get back to it. Complete double packs today and I’ll overlook this incident. But,’ Mr Felici raised his finger to Sydney’s face, ‘consider this a warning.’&nbsp; Important announcement from the i: the steel framed billboard suspended large on the side of hanger ten flashed red. Everybody nearby stopped, looked up and waited. ‘Loyal citizens, we are close to uncovering the turncoats amongst us. They are responsible for the incident in the central quarter that resulted in the deaths of three of our citizens.’ The screen showed three faces with a word written underneath in bastard-bold-type: slaughtered. ‘The group responsible for this malicious attack seek to undermine the freedoms we have all worked so hard to achieve. These individuals are scattered amongst us. Weak willed and cowardly, they sneak in the shadows plotting our downfall. Whilst we pity their arrogance at such thoughts, we must act decisively to cleanse this poison from our system. If anyone has information regarding the group that seeks to betray us, speak to your local overseer. As you will no doubt be aware, the group are known by the mark they leave behind and, more recently as their activities have increased towards the start of a new quarter, the archaic and antiquated phrase: secret santa.’ On the screen, a mark appeared: ♯. A word appeared underneath: murderers. ‘If you have information but do not speak, you will be punished accordingly.’ The mark disappeared abruptly, slowly replaced with the growing party line: You are our eyes and ears, we are your hands. Together we can. &nbsp; ♯♯♯&nbsp; ‘Where are you going, Sydney?’ Syd’s wife Christine eyed him with suspicion from her vantage point on their faded blue sofa. ‘It’s nothing really, hun. Just going out for a walk.’ ‘I know you’re up to something,’ her foot started tapping on the floor, fast. ‘It’s fine really, hun. It’s better you don’t know anyway.’ ‘Just be careful,’ she stressed. ‘We don’t want a repeat of last time. We’re on thin ice with the overseer as it is.’ Syd closed the door and strode off into the night, humming quietly to himself.&nbsp; Squashed on the edge of the threadbare sofa in Stan’s basement, Steph told the group about her great grandfather. ‘A long time ago, my GG - that’s what we called him - told our family of a time when he was a young boy.’ Steph inched forward, running her hands over her knees and down her jeans. ‘He said he went to open air concerts in parks, where hundreds and hundreds of people gathered together to listen to music, dance, sing, and express their love for each other. Can you imagine! Outside, together!’ ‘Before the New War?’ Syd asked. ‘Of course.’ Stan replied. ‘Even to speak like this…’ Syd trailed off. Stan continued. ‘They can’t be allowed to carry on like this. We must do what we can to make people see the truth of it all, but we must be careful. You guys heard that bullshit announcement the other day right, about the deaths in the central quarter. Were those faces on the screen even actual people?’ ‘Propaganda.’ Eta said pulling a tatty old book from underneath the sofa. ‘This book,’ Eta spat the words out, ‘is history. This book was one of the first the i produced to brainwash us, to keep us in line.’ The front cover was missing, but the back still clutched onto a beaten-up old spine. Syd read the blurb on the back: Love didn’t stop the New War, and it won’t stop the next disaster our loyal citizens are working so hard to avoid. Love didn’t stop the famines, or the viral outbreaks, or the tsunamis. It was graft, it was strength, it was leadership and courage that brought stability to our broken corner of this fractured world. To maintain our newfound freedoms, we must take steps to prevent them from being threatened again. Individual or collective acts of subversion will be punishable at the discretion of the overseers. You are our eyes and ears, we are your hands. Together we can. Syd scoffed: ‘Acts of subversion.’ ‘Pretty vague eh.’ Steph replied. Stan pulled a small - outlawed - digi-recorder from a box. Being small, they were easier to conceal than a book, but no less dangerous. ‘How many have we got left?’ Eta asked. ‘Loads, the others have plenty more too. Okay, let’s show people what they’ve been missing all these years. Let’s get the word out there.’ Stan the man pressed the red button on the device.&nbsp; ♯♯♯&nbsp; Alone at their work stations, Sydney turned to Stanley. ‘How long do you think we can keep getting away with this?’ Stanley’s eyes darted around their assignment. ‘We’ve already sent out hundreds,’ he replied, stifling a grin. Sydney’s eyes sparkled, ‘yes, we, have.’ Stanley checked no-one was nearby as he pulled a handful of digi-recorders from his pocket. Stanley and Sydney buried the devices underneath the protective packaging in the boxes they were packing, then scrawled their current calling card on the inside of the boxes before sending them on their way. Footsteps clattered on metal. Steph, who worked in a different hangar and only came to this assignment now and then to manage rotas, hurried herself across a long gangplank towards Sydney and Stanley. Steph looked nervous. ‘Eta’s been arrested,’ she said flatly. ‘Earlier today.’ Stanley froze: ‘What? Oh shit. So this is it then. The gigs up…literally.’ ‘Do you think they know about us?’ Sydney asked, starting to panic. ‘What do we do?’ Steph struggled to keep her composure. ‘I’ve got children.’ Sydney spun around. ‘Oh shit.’ The metal gangplank trembled as Mr Felici ran across, pointing at the three in assignment B. ‘There they are!’ he shouted towards the guards charging behind him. Syd stood himself upright and sighed deeply. He started to clap his hands together. Bom, bom, bom, bom. ‘I love you Christine,’ he whispered under his shallow breath. Steph shrugged her shoulders, ‘fuck it then,’ sat down cross-legged and proceeded to bash out a rough rhythm on the floor. Ironically, the hangar offered excellent acoustics. Stan took a deep breath, paused, then belted out a verse rich with deep vibrato tones, which reverberated off the steel walls and away into the distance. Before he saw them, a rifle butt smashed into Stanley’s face, ceasing the sound and breaking his teeth. And it was over.&nbsp; ♯♯♯&nbsp; As she stared intently at the words on the inside of the box, Julia laid the protective packaging in her hand to the floor by her side. ‘George!’ She yelled. A middle-aged man bolted into the room. ‘What is it dear?’ ‘Look.’ Julia pointed accusingly at the scrawled act of subversion: secret san♯a. George reached in and removed the rest of the packaging, scouring the box. A small digi-recorder device fell out from between folds of paper. ‘What is it?’ Julia asked. ‘I don’t know.’ George laid the device to the floor, tweezing his moustache between finger and thumb. The device had a simple row of three coloured buttons: green, blue, red; with words etched into them: play, stop, record. Julia took a breath, reached out slowly and pressed the green play button. ‘What are you doing?’ George cried. From the small device, sound emerged, reaching out like tentacles into the emptiness of their living room. Rich, deep rhythmical notes walked up and down an imaginary line. A boxy beat echoed heavily around the room, bouncing off walls and reverberating through torsos. Warm, graceful strings stretched sharply over the booming bass, stinging the air with a joyful sadness. A man’s voice rumbled into life, emotions pouring and peaking from his subtle variations in pitch. ‘What is it?’ George asked, astonished. ‘I’ve never heard anything like this.’ ‘I don’t know,’ Julia whispered, ‘I think this might be, what did they call it, music?’ A tear rolled down Julia’s cheek as the violin soured higher. ‘It’s absolutely incredible.’&nbsp; ♯&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;

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Luke Webb

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