The Park: A Dystopian Short Story

by Amy DuBoff

  I looked around the small room with astonishment. There were news printouts stacked throughout the room, a diagram of sorts was spread out on the table and scraps of wood and plastic littered the floor. I’m sure my mouth was hanging open, but I didn’t care. Jane seemed un-phased to my surprise.

  Marcus walked to the corner of the room and removed a piece of cloth from on top of something hidden from my view. “Marcus . . . what is all this?”

  He glanced back at me over his shoulder before returning his attention to a large object in the corner. “I suspected something was going on, so I started investigating,” he began, lifting up a wooded form from the ground. “I had to put in my own installation in order to be absolutely sure of what would happen. What you told me today—about the installation disappearing—confirmed my suspicions.” He set the wooden model on the ground in front of us.

  I stared at it with wonder. The piece of commentary sitting before me, even without the background of the Park, was so different than any commentary I had seen before that I was rendered speechless. Jane came to stand next to me, also spellbound by Marcus’ creation.

  “It’s . . . brilliant,” Jane breathed.

  The model, meticulously crafted and fitted with embellishments, was a perfect replica of Political Park; metal bars formed a box around the grounds, enclosing it like a cage. Everything was in place, small statues, the trees, and in the center of a miniature plaza, The Wall. Through the bars, I could just make out the lettering scrawled carefully on The Wall, the words wrapping around the three sides in bright red ink. The message read: “The Park isn’t free, it controls what you think.”

  “What do you mean, ‘it controls what you think’?” I asked Marcus.

  “You’ll see.” His tone was disturbingly fatalistic.

  I was becoming increasingly nervous. “Is this model like the one you put in the Park on Wednesday?”

  “Yes, very similar to it,” he responded, gently adjusting a tiny tree branch.

  I nodded. “Well, I can see how people in some circles could find it offensive.”

  Marcus only made a vague gesture with his hand in response.

  “You couldn’t have built this model in a few days,” Jane interjected, “let alone two of them. They’re so much more ornate than any other works of commentary I’ve seen in the Park.”

  Marcus turned towards her. “I’d been slowly working on them for a few months. I only told you I was going to install a work of commentary once they were complete, so I could do what I had to do right away.”

  I shook my head. “Do what, Marcus? And why a model of the Park?”

  “The model is incidental. There’s something more important I need you to do for me.” He took a compact video recorder from a cabinet and handed it to me. “Record me while I put up my commentary. No matter what, don’t stop filming. It’ll become clear to you afterwards what you have to do.”

  I held the recorder in my outstretched hand for a moment before slipping it into my coat pocket. I nodded my understanding, my stomach knotting.

  “I’ll be right back,” Marcus said. “I have to make a quick vid call.”

  Jane and I stood in silence while Marcus was in the other room. I felt numb, but was determined to keep my composure. I was sure Marcus was keeping something from us, but I would find out what very soon.

  Several minutes passed. When Marcus returned, his expression was grim. “Let’s go,” he said as he tossed a dark cloth over the caged model of Political Park and picked up his creation.

  I held the door open for him as the three of us went into the hallway, and locked the door behind us with a key he supplied for me before we went out to the dark night streets.

  We took the underground public transit railway to the Park, knowing there wouldn’t be many people at such a late hour. I felt numb during the ride, my senses captured by the monotonous rumble of the train gliding along its tracks. Only when the train paused at stops did I become conscious of my thoughts, and discover I was speculating about what Marcus had planned. What had I gotten myself into?

  The train came to a smooth halt and I felt Jane lightly touch my arm. “This is our stop.”

  I nodded, and reflexively shoved my hands into my coat pockets, only to tense when I felt the video recorder brush against my right hand. I took a deep breath and curled my fingers around the recorder, holding it securely to my palm.

  The train station was utterly deserted and felt desolate for somewhere in the middle of a city. The sidewalks aboveground were likewise empty, so we were able to gain entrance to the Park without encountering anyone.

  We made our way up the entrance path of the Park, the moonlight casting ghostly shadows on the dark path. I instinctively reached for Jane’s hand as we walked, my unease growing.

  Marcus stopped as we neared the opening into the central plaza and turned towards Jane and me. “Stay in the bushes,” he told us. “Don’t reveal yourselves. And remember, no matter what, you have to film me as long as you can.”

  I looked over at Jane, who was staring at the ground. “Marcus, what are you going to do?” I asked again, hoping to get more of an answer now that we were at the Park.

  Marcus shook his head. “Justin, don’t you understand yet? And you profess to be a good reader of commentary. My installation says it all!

  “The Park is not what we’ve been led to believe it is, at least anymore. People like us no longer put in installations; the city does. They realized a couple years ago that they could use the Park to their advantage, to influence the public political consciousness. Occasionally they’ll let a few pieces of lesser commentary stay in the Park, but otherwise all the recent installations have been put up by city officials. I’ve tipped them off that I’d be here, so they can arrest me—take me away—whatever it is they do with people who say something they don’t want said . . . something that goes against the political climate they are trying to set through their ‘commentary.’ And when they do take me away, you’ll be here recording it all. Then you’ll be able to share the truth with everyone else.”

  My mouth was completely dry. “No, Marcus, you can’t . . .” I managed to get out. “It’s not worth it.”

  He nodded soberly. “It is to me. Please, Justin, do this for me. I have a projector in the same cabinet in my apartment where I got the video recorder. Remember which one? I’ve already prepared a projection screen for you, the south face of The Wall. All you have to do is set it up tomorrow morning. I called in an ad for in the morning news. I’m sure some people will come, and once they’ve seen it, they’ll bring more. This is the one chance we have to really make a difference—to get things back to how they were before city officials started abusing the Park.”

  “We won’t let you down, Marcus,” Jane said, her voice hollow.

  I, too, reluctantly agreed to follow through with his request.

  “Thank you.” He removed the cloth from on top of his model of the Park and handed it to me. I took it from him and folded it as best I could. Without another word, Marcus gestured for us to move into the bushes and start recording.

  Jane and I silently complied.

  Marcus walked out into the plaza, his commentary in hand. He paused for a moment at The Wall, looking up at its plain, white face, then resolutely walked off to an empty pillar on the east side of the plaza, the same pillar on which he had placed his original commentary.

  I could see him clearly in the moonlight, a dark form against the gray concrete shapes in the plaza. I kept the recorder trained on him, unsure of what would happen next.

  Then, just as Marcus was setting the model on the pillar, five men rushed out from the exit path, two of them throwing Marcus to the ground.

  They struggled for a moment, trying to subdue Marcus’ writhing figure.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Marcus shouted as they pinned him to the ground; I knew he was being as loud as possible for the video.

  “You’re being arrested for treason,” on
e of the standing men replied, pulling handcuffs from his jacket.

  “Treason?!” Marcus yelled back. “The Park is public, for the public to use as it sees fit!”

  “Your commentary jeopardizes the continued stability of our government,” the man continued, bending down so he could get a better look at Marcus. “We’re trying to maintain peace and order in the city, and your commentary threatens that very security. That, Commentator, is grounds for treason.”

  “You’re mad!” Marcus went on. “Then who’s allowed to comment in the Park?”

  “It’s not a matter of who comments, but rather what is said,” the man replied as he stood up and backed away from Marcus, signaling to the two other men standing by. “I was told your installation does not conform to the commentary guidelines the city has mandated.”

  “What guidelines? There can’t be ‘guidelines’ for commentary!” The four men pulled Marcus to his feet and bound his wrists behind his back with the handcuffs they received from the speaker. “Hey! Where are you taking me?” Marcus demanded as they started prodding him towards the exit.

  “To someplace where your commentary is out of public view.”

  The men strapped a gag over Marcus’ mouth and pushed him down the exit path. The speaker grabbed Marcus’ creation by the cage bars and indifferently carried it away with him, following his comrades and Marcus out of the Park.

  When they were out of view, I turned off the recorder and lowered it into my lap. My hands were shaking.

  Beside me, Jane was sitting motionless, but the moonlight glistened on her wet cheeks. I placed the recorder securely in my pocket and then put my arms around Jane, holding her close.

  “It’ll be okay,” I said softly, doing my best to subdue the knot in my throat. “This is what he wanted. He did what was needed.”

  —

  As Marcus had envisioned, people did come to the Park the next morning. Jane and I arrived early and set up the projector, setting the footage of Marcus’ arrest on an endless loop. We were too busy preparing the Park for the display for me to have time to look up the ad Marcus had run in the morning paper, but based on the eventual number of people who came, it must have been skillfully written.

  Jane and I sat for a while on a bench, watching the footage play. The events of the previous night still didn’t seem real to me, but it was a reality I knew I’d have to eventually accept.

  People started arriving at around 7:00 AM. By 7:30, there was a healthy crowd gathered around The Wall. The footage loop was short, but people stayed and kept watching. But more importantly, they started to talk. Soon, the audio of Marcus’ arrest could no longer be heard over the frantic discussion of the crowd.

  I smiled, putting my arm around Jane’s shoulders. Jane looked up at me and smiled as well.

  “Well,” I said quietly into her ear, “it looks like we ended up being Commentators after all.”

  She leaned her head against my shoulder. “Yes, we did,” she replied, looking out at the crowd, pleased.

  We watched the crowd’s reaction to the recording, noticed the conversation change from confusion, to rage and finally to a call for action. Marcus had done it.

  It certainly was the most compelling commentary in the Park anyone had ever seen.

  THE END

  Read more from the Author

  THE CADICLE SERIES

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  The Cadicle series follows three generations of the pivotal Sietinen Dynasty as each learns their part in an elaborately orchestrated galactic conflict. Torn by politics, love and war, the Cadicle and those he holds most dear must choose between duty and morality as the true nature of their purpose unfolds. Through their roles as Agents in the Tararian Selective Service, they will be on the front lines of space battles, but the political skirmishes they must face on Tararia could prove just as dangerous. The Cadicle holds the key to winning both, but at what cost?

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  About the Author

  Amy has always loved science fiction—books, movies, shows and games. After devouring some of the classics like Dune and Ender’s Game in her tween years, she began writing short stories.

  In the ensuing years, Amy attended the Vancouver School of Arts and Academics in Vancouver, Washington, where she studied creative writing. She eventually became a Psychology major at Portland State University, but also pursued a minor in Professional Writing. After graduating, she stumbled into a career as a proposal manager.

  Amy currently lives in Portland, Oregon. When she’s not writing, she enjoys travel, wine tasting, binge-watching TV series and playing epic strategy board games.