We Dare to Win

We Dare to Win

By Joanne E Galliher

A 1,990-word dystopian fictional short story

It is December 7, 2051; and a bone-chilling dawn. That is strange weather, for this part of the world.

Flashing red and blue lights jolt 50-year-old Allan Alexander from bed. Because he is an Alpha male; from a hardy Scottish Viking ancestry; and his name, in Gaelic means ‘Rock’ and ‘Protector…’ he always sleeps with one eye open.

Jane, his wife of 20 years, is older by five years. She peeks over the blanket’s crocheted edging.

Allan always treats her as if she is invisible. Anyone who acts weak, frightened, and passive are the bane of his life.

He has no idea she is a Beta female--cleverly ruling from the shadows. He is too narcissistic to know her name, in Gaelic means ‘a gift from God.’

“I blame this on you! It’s you, who encourages Lachlan to while-away… Waste-away hours, drawing!”

She calmly replies, “You have your duck hunting. Lachlan has his sketching. God as a blueprint for every person.”

“God’s wrong! No son of mine’s ‘blueprint’ is art! Artists are spineless sissies! Darn followers! Followers get in trouble! Don’t you see the cop car’s lights?”

He rips off her blankets. “Make some coffee! Serve up your apple pie! I’ve got sweet-talking to do!”

His roaring rousts their 16-year-old twins. Lachlan shivers, scampering across the kitchen’s icy stone floor. Lucy marches like a Buckingham Palace Guard. Her angry heart numbs her feet.

Allan flicks Lachlan’s head. “Instead of driving a tractor, you will swing a sickle, to head the barley. Today you’ll work like our Viking forefathers!”

Lucy pipes up, “Our 200-year-old whiskey distillery is only for strong, hard-workers. Poppy farming suits pansies, like Lachlan.”

Pounding on the back door squelches the pair’s mocking laughter.

Allan refills with anger, hurling the door open. Scrawny Callum leaps back.

Wagging her head, Lucy says, “Hey, ‘Useless,’ if your father wasn’t Police Chief; you’d still be ditch-digging.”

“Pounding on the back door! I could’ve mistaken you for a criminal and shot you!?”

Callum drops his head. “My dad. I m-mean Chief…”

“Look at me! Get to the point, you ninny!”

“T-T-Turn on your T-T-TV, Sir.”

…

“Look at that Minister of Environment! Scared out of his wits! He plays a violin. Another artsy-fartsy sissy!”

The Minister’s lips quiver. “We guess the Earth’s 157,308,738 square miles of dry land is now just 24,000.”

He leans into the camera. “Fellow Tasmanians, Antarctica’s northwest suddenly thawed, overnight.” Tears fill his eyes. “Billions drowned.”

“Our Tasman Sea and the surrounding Pacific and Coral seas have not risen… Yet. We will perish if all 5,405,430 square miles of Antarctica thaw.”

“Fate is threatening us. Why else has this happened on the 110th Anniversary of the Pearl Harbor Attack? But this is not the work of military or extra-terrestrial enemies. We ignored our youth’s predictions. We adults are the enemies.”

Allan roars, “Stupid philosophizing sissy!”

“Jane, iron my old SAS fatigues!”

He slaps Lachlan up the side of his head. “I should’ve forced you to join the Special Air Service Cadets! The SAS Code, ‘who dares, win’ might have made you one-tenth a man!”

He kisses Lucy’s cheek. “But you’ll help to fix this mess!”

“Jane, get me the phone!”

“Thanks to all my years duck-hunting with the Premiere, we’re chums. Just listen, as he turns to puddy, in my hands!”

“… Like I said, Premiere, the Chief and I will have this under control within 48 hours. The Parliament House is an obvious target for any surviving communist countries. Move all government computers to the Council building, in my town…”

He grins like a cunning fox.

“Lucy, call that ninny, Mayor Mac Gregor. Tell him to get the Premiere and all 29 mayors to the southwest face of Mount Stanley, at 0600, tomorrow.”

…

Allan scans each government officer’s face, thinking, I must strike while the panic is ripe.

“Mainlander Australians and the world think we 500,000 Tasmanians are dumb folks. They are wrong! You, Tasmanian leaders are extremely smart! You signed the AAST Plan—Alexander/Armstrong Survive & Thrive Plan! You let me appoint Chief Armstrong as Minister of Defense and Lucy as Minister of Communication!”

Lucy gets everyone chanting, “Little Tasmania is LETHAL!”

…

The AAST trio does not waste a minute…

They seize all computers, mobile phones, and everything related to creativity. Households only have one landline phone. Lucy sets up an electronic surveillance to snoop all phone calls.

She mails every household a memorandum: My computer system, ‘Mother,’ has your household’s dietary needs calculated. Bi-monthly, you buy your allotted food, at your local Townhall. We must carefully ration, until our stock-pile grows.”

Each youth, 10 to 18, must complete one of the two-year, ultra-practical courses, as assigned by Lucy. It is a slim list: Cultivating Crops and Breeding Animals; Textiles; Manufacturing Personal and Household Cleaning Products and Machinery/Vehicle Mechanics.

The next day, at least 5,000 youth protest outside AAST Headquarters. They are arrested and whisked-away to farm labor camps, for two years. Their families’ food allotments are cut by 20%, for two years.

…

Now it is December 7, 2056. The fifth anniversary of the Antarctica thawing. Lucy and Allan have made AAST Headquarters their home; while 21-year-old Lachlan cares for his mother. Her Beta courage went in overdrive. She has been on a hunger strike for 40 days.

She grips Lachlan’s wrist. “I must rule our roost, before I die.”

He kisses her forehead. “No. You must rest…”

“I’m going to die today. There is no time to rest. Go to that special tree…”

He squeezes her hand. “Do you mean the Oak Tree, with that Sassafras Tree intertwining it?”

She softly smiles. “Together, we named it ‘Tree of Wisdom.’ We made your sketching box using a fallen branch.”

She musters up a chuckle. “As we sawed it, you said the Sassafras smelled like black licorice and root beer.”

“And I told you, sketching was my life’s sweetest treat.”

“No Lachlan. Sketching is still your life’s treat. Hurry! I buried your sketching box!”

When he gets back…

“Quick. Tell me about this Garnet heart-shaped locket, with this teardrop Garnet dangling from it.”

Jane miraculously gets a burst of energy. “Since the Renaissance, all the women in my family wore it. Garnet balances the mind and heart; and that unleashes creativity. As I cradled you and your sister as babies, I pressed it to your chests. Lucy always pushed it away.”

“Promise me you’ll put the teardrop Garnet under Lucy’s mattress. Keep the heart-shaped Garnet locket on a chain, dangling near your heart.”

Allan bursts into the bedroom. “Jane, you’re twice a turncoat!’ He scowls at the box. “You’re a traitor! Not my son!”

He strangles Lachlan; but he fights free. The most serene smile fills Jane’s face just before she dies.

“You and your AAST killed my mother!”

Allan stands shivering; and as pale, drooping and gob smacked as Lachlan did five years ago.

“I disown YOU!” Roars Lachlan, as he stuffs his backpack in a flurry.

He speed-peddles, as if in Tour de France. Once at the trail to Dove Lake, he leaves his bike; and starts power hiking. He’s at the lake just minutes before sunset.

He sucks in the Boronias’ sweet and tangy scent and that gets his creative juices boiling. He sits on the soft Button Grass; and rests his back against a Hoop Pine Tree. He feels as if he is in Mother Nature’s studio.

He clutches the locket in his left hand.

The sketch is complete in 10 minutes. His sunset is pink and orange sherbet swirls. He captures how twilight changes the lake from turquoise to royal blue. He closes his eyes; and feels his mother’s hand on his chest. He grasps the locket. Right before his eyes, the Garnet switches from dull blood-red to a cheerful crimson. Orange and pink flickers throughout it.

From behind him, he hears Lucy. She is laughing and chatting with some strangers.

“L-L-Lucy? Wh-Wh-What…”

He has never seen her eyes shine like pennies or heard her laugh, until now. “Hey, Lachlan! You know how Mother told us, because we’re twins, we’re supposed to be a family within a family?”

Still astonished, Lachlan slowly nods.

She snickers. “Well, you were going to say: ‘What are you doing laughing and chatting with strangers?’ Right?” I’m a new Lucy!”

Lachlan numbly nods.

She and the group lead him through the shrub.

He gasps, as he sees a breath-taking meadow, full of every imaginable fragrant flower.

Lucy boasts, “All that was planted by us, 2,000 TFFs—Tasmanian Freedom Fighters. And at least 1,500 are some sort of artist!”

…

At dawn, the rumble of revving cars and trucks wakes Lachlan. As he yawns, someone touches his shoulder. “You’re riding with me,” says Premiere Mac Donald. As soon as he starts his jeep… “Son, how I endured all that duck hunting, with your old man, begs belief! I’m a vegan!”

Lachlan chuckles. “And you’ve lived to tell that tale? He didn’t shoot you, for treason?”

They slap backs, laughing.

…

After an hour of driving…

Lachlan goes chalk white. “Wh-Wh-Why are we here? Why is L-Lucy sprinting to that AAST Rally’s stage?”

He catches up to her; and clutches her arm. “If you’ve swindled me, I’ll…”

“Trust me.” She whispers to him. And with a wink adds, “Do just like I asked!” Nothing can wipe the big grin off Lachlan’s face.

She stands right beside Allan, like always.

She raises her right hand. In minutes, Lachlan positions fifty TFFs along the edge of the stage. She gives him a wink.

“Today, I tell the truth. I found this Garnet teardrop…” Allan scratches his head fretting, that is not the speech I gave her.

“I set it next to my computer, putting it out of my mind. Then, as soon as I touched the keyboard, it became a cheerful crimson with orange and pink shining throughout it.”

Allan jerks his head back. Lucy glares at him. “You’re a power junky! It was easy to guess your password: Power$2051.”

He tries to grab her; but those fifty TFF’s shake their fists and yell at him.

“You made us believe we were the only survivors! Retrieving your thousands of deleted emails proved that wrong! Retrieving countless emails, you and the Chief exchanged, exposed your totalitarian take over!”

She tosses hundreds of printouts into the crowd. “AAST supporters! Read for yourselves!”

The audience unites and starts to mob the stage. Lachlan, Mayor Mac Gregor, and Premiere Mac Donald, link-armed, shielding the pair of tyrants.

“Let the evil pair go!” Shouts Lucy. “We Tasmanian’s are not assassins!” She glares at the SAS medals on Allan’s uniform. “It is us, united Tasmanians, who ‘dare to win; and so, we win!’ You and the Chief are snakes! Slither out of our lives!”

…

Four years pass. It is December 7, 2060. Tasmania’s democracy and elections are reinstated. Premiere Mac Donald is Minister of Education. Mayor Mac Gregor is Tasmanian Premiere. Lachlan and Lucy are a ‘family within a family.’ They share their roles as Minister of Art and Minister of Communications/Foreign Affairs.

Callum Armstrong is Minister of Defense. His wife runs ‘Creativity and Confidence-Building Summer Camp.’ Lachlan’s wife is Environmental Minister.

Lachlan’s unanimously selected to speak at today’s ‘Fourth New and Better Tasmania Day Celebration.’

“Me as Speaker. That would rile Allan, to no end.” The crowd cheers.

“Since we embraced that our world as one country, Tasmania and the 15 surviving countries formed a new United Nations. Our quarterly conferences made monumental strides in preserving our Earth. Worldwide, electricity is 87% sourced from hydro, wind farms or solar. Half our cars are electric. We only use compostable material for packaging foods and goods. There are thousands of our ecological achievements in that recycled paper brochure, on your seat.”

“We proved it takes creative pragmatism, to keep our environment as the gift, that keeps on giving.”

The End