A short story audiostory/podcast
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (Canadian-General) North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
I'm going to tell you a story. Are you ready as a quick trigger warning? This story contains mentions of gunfire and sound effects. If this is troubling to you, please do not listen. Bell sat in the most secluded corner of the cafe. He could find and watch the anarchy from the relative safety of espresso shots and leather couches. The coffee here wasn't the greatest. But then again, the Internet was free and he needed 20 minutes to himself. Since the coffee was so next undrinkable, it was easy to get time alone. The almost empty cafe, only one other soul, the ragged looking barista was inside the tiny place and she left him alone. Bell didn't care. He was too busy watching the street from behind the safety of the glass. His work forgotten. Outside there was a parade of students and poor alike, dressed in matching rainbow and red scarves, walking with the pace of soldiers. They were chanting something. He could see that through the glass. But the jazz the cafe played was so loud that he couldn't hear them. Every fifth stride, they'd raise a fist thrust into the air, then bring the fist back down and crashed into their chest, raise punch, repeat over and over. Protests really weren't uncommon. There had been six in the city this month alone ever since the new government had installed the curfew and began documenting people carting them on the street, the color of their skin no longer saved them from being swept up in the sudden strict structure. Bell had been watching it unfold for months now starting the trickle and now in a wave they're protesting again, the barista said. From where she was reading the paper spread over the counter happens. People aren't happy, Bell said. He looked over his shoulder at her. Are you happy with it all? She shrugged thin shoulder up. Makes no real difference. No 1's been hurt yet. She turned another page. It'll calm down. Bell looked back out at the crowd and saw a couple clutching each other's arms. The two young men looked terrified to be there because if I knew something bad was going to happen, it was in the air, thick and heavy with attention that was almost perverse. And Bell didn't move from the window seat. His phone was buzzing impatiently, but he ignored it. The ground was beginning to rumble now he could feel it and see it through the window. As it trembled, crowds stop their fast pace and slowed to a near crawl. Several began to back up the way they had come that made the poorest a man in her paper. What is that? Bell knew from experience what it was. Thanks. Military has been called in to handle protests tanks. She Goggled at him for a moment and then shook her head. That's overkill. Probably trying to scare the kids. The crowd was now forming a line across the street. Arms interlocked, they're chanting, was finally penetrating the glass barrier and he could hear the words rights, people give but didn't seem to be any order. The line was rocking forward, legs staggering to brace themselves against what was to come. Bell leaned out and saw that ahead of two massive great tanks ahead of their pointed muzzles and ominous tracking wheels was a line of soldiers in black. Their gear was riot and their visors made them indistinguishable from one another. They were all holding sizeable guns and marching forward, no shouting, no announcements as if their presence should be threat and answer enough for the students. The students and poor were forcing their way forward and the guns turned on them. Bell heard the baristas startled gasp, shook his head. She sounded ready to bolt, rubber bullets and bean bags, he told her. Not sure if that was actually a comfort justice. Carome. But still the soldiers didn't speak. Then one student broke apart from the others, the leader he had to assume, their plain brown hair curly about her face, and a rainbow scarf flying out behind her. She had her arms spread. She was speaking something of soldiers. Bell knew from experience that it was a sort of platitude. Let us protest. She'd say. His phone buzzed angrily in his pocket with more texts, more updates, more requests. She's so brave, the priest said. Yeah, Bell agreed. More students were joined the girl at the front. The way they stood was a barrier to the soldiers. The curve of the line gave the impression the soldiers could be surrounded easily. Yeah. Bell looked down at his phone, swiping some across messages quickly. He sighed, looked back up. Just go home. He whispered, don't do this. Mr the priest asked should we? I mean should I lock the door? I think I should lock it. She came out from behind the counter and went for the door but stopped odd by the sight of crowd on the street, last line of protests and they were doing so just with words. Something like that wasn't often seen. Bell watched the girl reach out towards the soldier with her rainbow scarf in her hands, A peace gesture. The soldiers she approached stiffened as she held the scarf out and smiled at him. Bell typed out a reply the latest text he'd received and hung his head. Mhm. The street erupted into chaos as the soldiers opened fire. Only they weren't rubber bullets designed to hurt, or beanbags designed to pummel. They were sent from guns designed to shred to extinguish a threat before it could attack first. The barista screened for the students and Bell side. As he watched the line of fire ripped through with an inpatient wave, bodies dropped, signs were tossed away, but Bell didn't see. A single person escaped from the fire, simply took them in its death coils and brought them to their knees. It was over fast to him, to the students and the poor. It was slow. As the smoky haze cleared, Bell had to begin the arduous task of counting. Except he couldn't do it from the safety of the coffee shop. He made certain to tip the terrified, half fainting barista extra. She'd need it. Bell stepped out onto the street and reached for a tiny notebook he always kept in his coat pocket. He flipped to a fresh page, began to make scratches of five. The soldiers perusing the battleground, if you could call it, that ignored them. Everyone tend to ignore him and it was best kept that way. He was left alone to do his work. As he came to each body, he'd snap his fingers scratching line, then move on. He did it over and over again. Two Italian of 200 before he came to the body of the girl who had led them. Her rainbow scarf still hung limp from her hand. Bell dropped to a knee. None wound it from her death grip turned the scarf over so that was bright once more and not splattered with blood. Bell felt a sort of pity, and after so long it shocked him that he could still feel such pity. He, even the scarf about his neck straightened to stoop back, then take her name off his list. Mhm. Congratulations. Mr Sean. He said. It all starts with you. He snapped his notebook closed and tucked it back in his pocket, stepping over bodies as he went. That they didn't even need a push anymore, was likely a sign of how things were about to go.