Almost

Summary: Zoe Brandon, an experianced and well travelled journalist, is commissioned to interview an unlikely character passionately involved in the revoltions of the era that frames the 2050s. This is an interview she's not likely to ever forget.
Author's Notes: This story is wholly mine, the characters, the setting and whatever randomness ensued along with it. I wrote it as a prepared creative writing for my Area of Study HSC English Paper. A word of warning, this is set in the future from the present. Just in case you feel slightly confused about the era.

As a travelling journalist, there are plenty of places that I’ve seen, people I’ve met. And each was a memorable experience, each face unique – to the point where now it all becomes blasé and every face looks the same.

My camera whirs as my finger releases the big black button. Whir. Click. Whir.

I peek from behind the viewer. Before me is a stretch of upturned faces, intense expressions – every sign of intent listening. And what are they listening to? Some new freedom-lover with the words “liberty is my right” stitched across the front of their shirt. Their hair hangs long, and is probably greasy and dirty – in dire need of a wash. Words bellow from their unshaven face, eyes deep set in passion.

I wonder if this is what Jesus Christ looked like, preaching his audience those two thousands and fifty years ago. I’ve noticed that all these new revolutionists adopt his style.

Stupid really. The battles rage on. Poverty’s reign has not yet ceased – despite ‘End Poverty Now!’ campaigns. People still hide in their homes, huts, houses, mansions, tents, caravans and cardboard boxes – dying of diseases we still can’t cure. Epidemics flood the world, adolescents’ rebel against modernist conventions in an increasing number. It’s not even alarming anymore.

And now is the era of revolutionists. Each has a package to sell. I’ve heard so many speeches and empty promises from the neo-communists, who promised not to fall into China’s downfall; civil libertarians, who promise to end the injustice of prior generations…

Sometimes, I wish I could just give up. Even death seems welcome in three days. These days, where no one is safe. This world, where we were never safe.

He steps down from the podium, having finished his pack of white-lies. He leaves the ovation behind him and walks towards me.

His eyes are blue. Strikingly blue.

“You’re Zoe? Zoe Branson?”

I nod curtly.

He smiles.

This exchange begins to feel ridiculous. It reminds me vaguely of my first interview ever. Back then, I was working in some silly gossip magazine which is unfortunately enjoying a booming business ten years on. I was eager to make the most of my interview, hungry to make an excellent first impression. And it began exactly like this one.

We are walking towards the nearest coffee shop. It’s at least fifteen minutes away.

I ask the Christ-wannabe some opening questions. He responds pleasantly. But it isn’t the start I need.

“So, how did it feel, to find your views so easily accepted?”

“It feels horrible.”

I stop walking. He notices that my shadow is not moving and my heels are not clicking. He stops three or four meters in front of me.

“Are you surprised?” He laughs.

I can’t decide whether I like his laugh or not. It’s deep and ruminating. But there is a tinge of bitterness within it that keeps me at bay. Keeps me from being drawn in. I am aware that I sound airy fairy, or emotionally driven. Or perhaps even reserved and irrationally wary. I am none of these things.

“What is freedom without enslavement?” He asks me. “It is not precious. It is not important. Nobody cares about freedom if it’s all they’ve ever known.”

I think about this. My mind extracts from the archives of my experiences my trip to some remote village in India. I recall the scents, the fresh air, the humidity and the desire to run with the children out into the heavy rainfall where it washed away the dust from their brown skin and caused them to grin broadly. It made for an excellent photograph. So excellent, it won a prize and convinced my editor that I did not need anyone but me, my pen and my camera whilst out on the field. And then I recall that sorrowful face. Those heartbreaking eyes and furry paws caged behind heavy metal bars. I asked my translator why this monkey was imprisoned.

He looked at me strangely. “To stop it from escaping.”

“But why is it caged up? Can’t you see it looks unhappy?”

He shrugged. “It is better for it to be unhappy now and safe from predators who prowl the village at this time of the year than to be happy now and dead tomorrow morning.”

I turned back to my interviewee. “What is free speech without contest?” He demands again. “Those people back there listen, but they do not think that maybe this is not what they want! How can I prove that I am right when no one will believe that I am wrong?”

This is unexpected, and I, Zoe Branson, have no idea what to ask him next.

“How can I preach liberty when my audience refuses to exercise their own freedom and thought and speech?”

We resume walking. I can smell the aroma of coffee before I see the café.

“But you cannot lead a revolution where each individual has their own ideas about everything. Where is the common ground upon which you would stand?” I ask, a question coming to mind at last.

He smiles sadly as we cross the threshold of the café. “There will never be a revolution. It is best if these ‘revolutionists’ come to terms with it now.”

“So, you are an individualist?”

“Men have tried for centuries to create revolutions, reforms and synthesise common ideals. It hasn’t worked then. It won’t work now. I aspire for community. The world needs communities. But, I doubt they will ever be unified. No. I do not believe in individualism.”

A pause.

“What do you believe in?” He asks.

It feels suddenly like a Tom Stoppard play where roles are reversed, bridges crossed and recrossed till they cease to be bridges and turn into roads. Here I was, the interviewer being interviewed.

“I don’t,” I respond at long last.

“Believe?”

“In anything. Except, to travel is to live. To journey is to discover, and to reach a destination is not the sole reward.”

It’s almost self-reflexive.

Our walk has ended as we lower ourselves into stupidly designed seats. The interview out to as well. The interesting quarter of it, anyway.

“And now I suppose we uncover the personal details of my life?” He asks, a tiredness creeping over his features.

I nod glumly. It is a journey neither of us wants to take. For me, it is reminiscent of my gossip magazine days where journalism is a façade. For him, I suppose, a distraction from his passion. An intrusion of his world. A signing, possibly, of the death sentence of some part of his campaign.

Personally, I hope to not find an agenda. He may be hoping he never had one.

Finis.