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Farewell to Seafaring
Down in the Dirt, v153
(the January 2018 Issue)




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Farewellto Seafaring

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At Midnight
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Jan.-Apr. 2018
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Rumblings of Dissent

Sharon Hajj

    Her dream finally came true. When Harper Boyd walked into the press room, she brought her years of preparation, anticipation, and excitement. Following in her grandfather’s footsteps, she knew journalism to be a noble profession. Surprised at the first thing she noticed, she fought off a nagging feeling nipping at her skin. A sign hanging on the wall said, ‘No Talking - Remain in the Building at All Times.’
    Harper looked around the room at the other journalists hunched over their desks. Close to twenty workers filled the rows, all faced away from the window. They went back and forth between clicking the typewriter in front of them and scribbling in a notebook, not looking up to see who entered the room. The sharp scent of bleach and castor oil seeping in from the adjacent room with the printing press, reminded her of her mother disinfecting the house when someone in the family was sick.
    Her new boss motioned to the lone empty chair, which happened to be closest to the window. Faced with the stark desk, Harper draped her smooth purple scarf over a hook to brighten the space. She swept her black curls behind her ears and took a deep breath. When she pulled out the chair and scraped the floor, she thought she heard a sigh from across the room but she couldn’t be sure. She continued to listen and only heard the tapping of keys or the turning of a page. The clock ticked, lulling the group into their monotonous work.
    When she imagined being a journalist, this wasn’t what she pictured. She thought she’d be running through the streets, hiding in alleys to find out the true story from someone at the scene of the crime, or sneaking into a home to write up a story from an anonymous source.
    Not wanting to disturb anyone, Harper pulled out her notebook from her bag, careful not to let the clasp jingle. She used slow, precise movements. Her pen with the red cap and lettering on the side, which said, Be Bold, had been a gift from her grandfather.
    Harper remembered when he gave it to her on her ninth birthday. Her friends had all gone home, leaving behind the vanilla cake with only the letters H A left on it. It was as if the cake laughed at what it had seen. Perhaps her friends didn’t want to escape the reality of the world around them, but their parents sure did.
    Her grandfather had pulled her aside and handed her a sleek red box, with a black ribbon tied around it. He didn’t say a word. When she opened it and saw the pen, she felt the raised script of the words, Be Bold.
    “Grandpa Oscar, will you tell me again about when you worked for the newspaper?” Harper asked. She led him to a couch and sat down close to him. They had the same rosy cheeks and large ears for listening. Harper thought she looked like a younger version of him when he still had his curly hair.
    “Harper, do you really want me to repeat it? You’ve probably heard it a hundred times.”
    “Yes, Grandpa, please.”
    “You’ve read about the collapse of the prison where they chained the inmates, right?” He leaned closer to Harper, speaking in a whisper.
    “Yes, and the protestors destroyed it.” Harper’s eyes lit up. The idea empowered her.
    “Ahh, yes, but at first, the governor tried to change the story because he was embarrassed. That’s when I was still young and I believed him. I delivered the newspapers at the time.” Oscar rubbed his head, bringing the memories to the surface.
    “Is that when you decided to be a journalist?” Harper tilted her head, waiting for the next part.
    “Not at first. I didn’t know he wasn’t telling the truth. Luckily, I met some wonderful friends who I learned from and they helped me to understand. They told me they all came together to destroy the prison because of the horror stories coming out of the place.”
    Harper’s eyes opened wide. She grabbed onto her grandfather’s arm urging him to continue.
    “It had been the governor’s thirst for power which eventually brought him down. When I learned the truth, that’s when I decided I would do everything in my power to become an honest journalist.”
    “You were the best, Grandpa,” Harper said.
    “And you, Harper, will be the best in your time. Remember, the truth will always come out. Search for that truth and don’t let anyone stop you.”
    The pen slipped from her fingers onto the desk, breaking Harper out of her memory. She gripped the pen and although the script on its side had worn down, she still felt the power it held, the power to tell the truth, and the power to change the world.
    Her boss handed her a paper for her first assignment announcing a new children’s museum. It was a reminder to be practical and realistic. She’d have to put her dreams of changing the world on hold.
    Hours, days, and weeks passed leaving Harper settled in a routine. The typical stories of community picnics, cat rescues, and retirement parties kept Harper and others in the newsroom from noticing their restrictions, until one day, a colleague mentioned the mayor might get kicked out of office but nobody was allowed to go investigate. A few sharp words passed around the room before being quickly packed away. Once rumblings of dissent threatened to pop to the surface, Harper felt a new uneasiness. Rather than focusing on her keyboard, she often turned to catch a glimpse of a sparrow resting on the window ledge, or strained to hear murmurs coming from the street.
    One day when her restlessness reached a crescendo, a chant down on the street caught her attention. The window, being on the second level, kept her from seeing the whole group, but she could see the tops of a few heads and arms reaching up holding signs. The sound of the ticking clock faded. Other chairs in the room scraped against the floor. The chants, louder and louder with each phrase, pulled Harper up out of her seat. She leaned on the windowsill leaving streaks of dust on her plaid dress. The puddles scattered over the road and cold air didn’t stop the protesters. They were uninhibited, free to fight for what was right.
    Harper looked back at the sign, ‘No Talking - Remain in the Building at All Times’ with a new disgust. She grabbed her things, threw her bag over her shoulder, and bolted out the newsroom door to where she was needed most, where she would greet the truth.



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