Young Writers Society

September 25th, 2016

“Is this thing on?” David tapped the microphone placed in from of him and listened through his earpiece. “Yo, Tatum, I don’t think this thing is working.”

“Hold on, hold on,” said Tatum. He ducked under the table and messed around with a tangle of wires before popping back up. “Okay, try now.”

“Testing, testing.”

David heard his voice bounce back. It sounded deeper than he thought. He pulled away from the microphone. “Tatum, put your earpiece in.”

“Got it.”

“Okay, hello, this is Da—”

“You can’t use your real name!” hissed Tatum. “Who knows who’s listening?”

David switched off the microphone. “Well then who do I call myself?”

The door at the top of the basement stairs popped open and someone clattered down the rickety flight. “Hey, are you guys here?”

Matilda reached the bottom of the steps and swung around the corner. “Hey! Sorry I’m late. Volunteering at the hospital ran late.” She surveyed the underground hideout that the three of them had agreed on. “God, this place is a dump.”

It wasn’t like they had much of a choice. Out of all the places to organize and set up an operation like the one they had, the basement of the foreign language building wasn’t too shabby, as long as the team could get past the moldy furniture pushed into a corner and the pervasive, damp smell of earth.

“Hurry up,” said David as he handed Matilda her own microphone.

Matilda pulled her dark hair, worn in tight cornrows, into a ponytail before adjusting the microphone closer to her face. “Are we live?”

“About to be,” explained Tatum. “But we have to think of names first.”

“Like aliases?”

“Exactly.”

“Goliath,” said Tatum, slapping David on the back. “Get it? You as Goliath?”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” sighed David. “But he was defeated and besides, that’s not—”

“It’s perfect,” said Matilda. “Can I be Dahl? Like the author Roald Dahl? Matilda?”

“That’s like… mega-nerdy,” said Tatum. “Just saying.”

“Exactly,” said Matilda. “No one would guess that it’s referencing my real name.”

“Hey, it’s your name,” said Tatum. “Your choice.”

“What are you going as?” asked David.

Tatum smiled. “Scarface.”

“What the hell Tatum?”

“It’s cool,” he protested.

“Yeah, it’s cool if you’re twelve,” countered Matilda.

“Alright, Dahl,” said Tatum. “At least I’m not named after an author we were forced to read back in third grade.”

“Can we just get on with the program?” said David. “It’s already past ten pm.”

“It’s not like anyone would be listening anyways,” said Matilda. She sighed and leaned back in the lawn chair that they hauled in. “It’s a Friday night. People are out partying. No one will be listening to a few college students bitching about stuff over AM radio.”

The partying had been nonstop since the Announcement. Eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow we die.

“Good point,” said David. “That should take some pressure off.”

“Unless they’re listening,” said Tatum. “Maybe they already know about us. Wolfgang says that there’s spies everywhere.”

“Wolfgang is a paranoid junkie. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Have you heard from him lately?” asked Matilda.

David shrugged. “He’s been a bit MIA. No one in the forums seems to know what’s up with him.”

“Anyways,” said Matilda, “It’s not like what we’re doing is illegal.”

“The signal’s pirated.”

“Okay but—”

“Plus, they arrested a ton of those protesters last week.”

Matilda’s mouth dropped open. “No… they didn’t, did they? The ones in Times Square? They were peaceful. Isn’t arresting them against one of those Constitutional things or something?”

Tatum nodded. “Yeah, like the right to assemble or protest or petition or something?”

“Hate to break it to you guys,” said David, “But I’m pretty sure that Constitution was nullified months ago. Not with our new overlords now.”

“And all hail!” shouted Matilda.

“But they ain’t new,” said Tatum. “We voted for this.”

“We voted on the leaders. Not on all this new stuff,” clarified David.

“It’s in humanity’s best interest,” mimicked Matilda in a high-pitched voice. “What a load of BS.”

Tatum pushed his thick-rimmed glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “We should have the microphones on for this discussion!”

“Right, right,” said David. “Hold on, hold on.”

David switched the transistors on and flicked on his microphone. Tatum and Matilda did the same with their microphones.

“Okay.” David took a deep breath. Was this the start of something? A movement, perhaps? An opposition?

Months of planning and scheming came down to this moment.

In all honesty, David thought that this project was sure to die within a few weeks. They’d probably broadcast for a month with a minimal audience, before getting swamped with homework. Then the radio equipment would grow dusty in the corner of someone’s dorm, before getting passed on at the end of the year. And the revolution the trio dreamed of would fade into a memory. Maybe someday, before they all died, one of them would mention it again, as a passing joke. Maybe they would smile at the memory. Maybe they’d smile at the memory of when they had hope.

There was something wrong with The Announcement. It wasn’t just David and Tatum and Matilda who believed this. The protestors in Times Square believed it. But what those rebels didn’t realize was that if an uprising was in order, it would have to be underground. Otherwise, they’d all end up in jail.

Looking back, David wished the movement had died out. After the tempest that erupted in their wake, the price of revolution had been too great.

But right now, they were young and bold. They had anarchy on their minds.

David smoothed down his sweatshirt and smiled at Tatum and Matilda, both of whom sat on the edge of their seats, ready for David to deliver the first words.

Here goes nothing.

David leaned forward again, placing his lips just above the microphone. “Welcome to Lone Voice Radio.”