The Prints

“The Prints are a collection of volumes which detail the etiquette, advice, systems and tips by which those under the jurisdiction of our current governing body live. To say you are ‘under’ our jurisdiction however is not entirely accurate. Here at The Bureau we view you all equally, both in your rights and in our responsibility to look over- I mean look out for you. We are there from ‘My First Prints’ all the way to our funeral arrangement edition. We are with you from the maternity ward all the way to the grave and all of us at The Bureau hope whole-heartedly that you can find comfort in this.”

Curtis smiled widely as he finished, hoping to mask the falter in his speech with even greater visual enthusiasm than was normally advised. Staring at the video feed, he noted the reason why he had fumbled over his words.

He was presenting to a year group at a primary school. His face was undoubtedly projected onto the standard issue screen in their hall, something that he found stirring memories of ‘The Wizard of Oz’ for some reason. He, in return, could see all their attentive faces looking back at him with admiration.

It was a teacher standing at the back of the room that had prompted his mistake. A young black woman with braided hair and crossed arms; she would have been pretty were it not for her frustrated expression. She was wearing what looked to be a heart-shaped locket over a yellow blouse. This (if Curtis recalled correctly) was not listed under the dress code for female primary school teachers. Neither was the shade of yellow. To be corrected.

Not to worry, he thought, he would identify her and write an advisory email once the presentation had concluded. Curtis was not normally responsible for such things but deemed this worthy of an exception given how it prompted such an exceptional blunder. He had never before faltered as such. Coming back to his senses, he realised that he must have been resembling a buffering computer and hastily composed himself,

“Any questions?”

Six hours earlier, Curtis Smith strode briskly into The Bureau at seven ‘o’ clock on the minute, checking the time on his fashionable watch. The polished marble floor glimmered underfoot, reflecting the similarly glamorous, distant ceiling. Curtis mulled over his appreciation for his job on the way up the lift as he did every day. Smiling at the woman who joined him on the ninth floor, he moved a respectful forty centimetres to the right to make room for her. Upon reaching the forty-second floor, Curtis wished her a good day and proceeded to his personal office.

He greeted his exceptionally attractive personal assistant (as was the earliest approved compliment for a personal assistant). It was important to Curtis for one to be able to display knowledge of the earlier volumes of The Prints, especially given his position in The Bureau.

Chief Editor was one of the most sought after occupations in the whole of Great Britain and whilst Curtis was overwhelmingly proud of this, he would never reveal so much. He knew also that nobody would express envy over such a thing. The word ‘envy’ was soon to be removed from the 2024 edition of The Prints Dictionary, a term now to be used only in the court of law (not that the courts were ever required, no crime had been committed in living memory). Curtis was overseeing this process as he had with over two hundred other undesirable words.

Walter Johnson, this department’s Head Omitter, kindly brought a cup of green tea to his desk (something like coffee would be ill-advised) and reminded Curtis of the online presentation he had been asked to deliver to the primary school students later that day. It was during his lunch hour but selflessness always took priority over hunger in all but emergency situations and thus he obliged the request.

Walter was the successor of the former Head Omitter who had accidentally released an unedited document. Likewise, Curtis had succeeded a man whose name has since been lost after he triggered The Fast: a typographical error in which a zero was missed off the daily recommended calorific intakes and nearly 20,000 citizens expired due to malnutrition. A man should certainly lose his job for such a misdemeanour.

Thinking about it, the turnover for employees in The Bureau was incredible. Curtis was once again lost in admiration regarding the company’s dedication to bringing fresh minds to the problems faced by society on a daily basis.

As hours of emails and deep appreciation passed, the time for his presentation drew near. Curtis meandered to the mirror in his office and combed his hair to the correct style, checking the shape and width against one of the caliper-like stencils he kept in a nearby drawer. Whilst a blue-collar worker may be advised to strive for rugged handsomeness, the likes of Curtis were to maintain the aesthetic pioneered by the founders of The Prints: a tailored suit, a wave of hair imbued with the sheen of well-priced cosmetic product, and an average-sized nose. It was important to Curtis for one to be an example to the bright minds of the future.

As if reading his thoughts, Curtis’ personal assistant floated into the room at that moment and delivered a paper copy of his well-rehearsed script to the desk. How lucky, he thought. Paper was an increasingly rare and expensive commodity, even with The Prints now being a pillar of modern civilisation for nearly three hundred years. In Britain, only two paper mills were dedicated to anything other than the making of The Prints. Curtis had to admit, the making of so many books was quite the feat. As his script stated, fifty standard volumes are issued to each citizen over the course of their life (with extras being delivered as per career specialisation, class, gender and ethnicity). This put significant strain on the paper infrastructure across the global network. Despite this, he found the texture and tangibility of paper preferable to a digital script. In a position as important as his this was nothing short of a necessary business expense.

With his pondering mind empty and his hair groomed, Curtis positioned himself behind his desk, ready for the fateful presentation.

Long after the talk to the school children, emails sent and hair re-groomed, Curtis relaxed into his comfortable chair with another green tea, still shaken from the mistake in his speech and now suffering from a sharp headache. However, this did not stop him from ruminating with appreciation regarding the quality of the wood that his desk was constructed from. It was at that moment that his exceptionally attractive personal assistant stumbled into the room with a panicked look on her face. The face in question collided with the wall as she was aggressively pushed aside by a woman in a yellow blouse with a locket round her neck. The woman in a yellow blouse with a locket round her neck. He had earlier identified her as Miriam Gbeho when advising her on female primary school teacher dress code. This however left his head as she crossed the room with alarming speed and poked him in the chest as he stood to greet her.

“Who are you to tell me what to wear?”

Curtis’ mouth was that of a fish out of water, gasping for a script to follow. This was not an approved salutation for a female primary school teacher, especially one speaking to the Chief Editor.

“Every word you say sickens me. From birth! You got that right at least,”

“I-”

“No, enough of you. This isn’t about you, Mr Smith,” she practically spat the words at him in a thick accent from somewhere in West Africa. Curtis now realised that school children had been pouring into his office behind the woman. To say he ‘realised’ however is not entirely accurate. Curtis Smith was more concerned about his left leg giving way under him as he slumped back down into his comfortable chair, mouth still agape, eyes wide with shock and unwelcome adrenaline. His heart pounded with the speed and consistency of a typewriter and his headache started running laps around his skull. He had never been confronted like this.

“You’re abusing these children with your books, you know that?” Miriam lifted a volume of The Prints high into the air before launching it at the nose of the now less attractive personal assistant who had been moving to intervene.

“All this paper, all of it. What does half of this even mean?” she was now upturning Curtis’ bookcase, tearing down his neatly arranged volumes into a disordered pile. She opened one on a random page, “Turning the car into oncoming traffic is counterproductive?” Paper flew into the air, “Refrain from making toast in the bath? Have you lost your damned mind?” The kids were revelling in the destruction.

The room seemed to stretch before Curtis and the floor dropped from under him. He lifted a finger and opened his mouth in preparation for his mind to pull some dialogue from the recesses of his brain only to find himself drooling words onto the carpet. Reaching up to touch his face with his left hand he realised he couldn’t move it.

“My mother gave me this locket you swine!” Despite the rising volume, Miriam’s voice tapered into gentle white noise as Curtis rolled to the floor, scrambling after loose sheets of paper, dragging himself with his functioning arm. The children ran through the scraps like piles of autumn leaves. Running through piles of autumn leaves is also counterproductive, he thought as he became the axis around which the building rotated.

He turned onto his back, limbs splayed, and saw the snow fall around him through the blurry vision of one eye. With one last effort, Curtis Smith thrust himself upwards into an indignant stance and reached to adjust his tie. He saw a yellow light dance before him as he swayed, faltered, strained and fell like a tree near a paper mill, hitting his head on the high-quality wood of his desk with a dull thud.

About four months later, Curtis Smith was wheeled into the Bureau at seven ‘o’ clock on the minute, the polished marble floor squeaking loudly as it was scuffed by the rubber of his wheelchair. He was to make a presentation today, to address the nation. His successor had left the office so arrangements could be made in preparation for Curtis’ arrival. It would be during lunch time but they all knew that selflessness took priority in all but emergency situations.

Wiping his chin with a handkerchief, his new personal assistant smiled with sympathy. She straightened his tailored suit and positioned him behind the desk which now had a small but noticeable dent along one edge.

“I apologise sincerely for the mistake I made on February 24th in my speech to the assembly of school children,” he slurred as he spoke, sputtering when met with a few of the more difficult words. “The response it triggered is testament to the severity of my error and the sentiment it suggested.”

Curtis continued to read from the digital script, despising each word as it left his non-compliant mouth.

“I apologise to the children and I apologise for any trauma that may have resulted from the incident. We have issued the appropriate volumes of The Prints involving advisories on traumatic events. It is with this that I announce my formal resignation from the position of Chief Editor. All of us at The Bureau hope whole-heartedly that you can find comfort in this.”

He smiled widely as he finished, masking the numerous faults in his speech with as much visual enthusiasm as he could muster. The camera stared back with a single dead eye. Curtis Smith was wheeled back out of the room, into the lift and out onto the street below.