1986

Winter of 1986

My name is Charles Rembrandt. At least that’s what they’ve told me on my documents. The only thing I can be sure of is that keeping the scribbles of my pen silent is a matter of existence or nonexistence.

I am a member of the Brotherhood, though it is very hard to consider ourselves anything of the sort. The few I know of, it is only by name and face. But it is our belief that makes us one. Is that not what keeps any family together? The belief that those of flesh and blood are special. That they hold some supplementary value above any neighbor. That although they have caused the most grief in our lives, they deserve the most love. Even if that love came at the cost of life and limb.

The Ministry could tear me apart, tooth by tooth, nail by nail. But it is only family that can tear at the heart, for where there is no love there can be no heartbreak. My only recollection of family was my mother’s face, smiling but wracked with sorrow. Of a father, save a loose arm severed and rigid, consumed forever by the fire of a bomb raid. Family is the only thing that can hold a memory through all the brainwashing and suppression of the Party.

As a prole I had no need to worry about any of that. Death was a part of everyday life. We were taught that from birth. And life was getting by, undisturbed by the Party. I had no business here, and I could continue that life, but…John-Hurt-in-1984-001

It is difficult to write when the pounding of your heart could very well become the pounding of snorting gorillas, trained from infancy as purgers of the state, on your door. Let every tittle and trembling character be a testament not to my fear of death (for I have long prepared to go beyond even that) but that of erasure. The fear that my part to bring BB down was nothing more than a speck of dried pigeon ordure on a face of the massive Ministry building. The fear that the Party’s army of mindless followers had already grown far too large. That there was no longer a sliver free from the dark eyes of Big Brother. That Goldstein could not…

Thump!

Thump!

Thump!

But we are the Brotherhood. When one ceases to be, another 2, 3, 4 follow. We are held together by an idea, a belief. One that is impossible to corrupt through forgery. Impossible to send down a chute to be burnt.

We are the Brotherhood.

1984___war_is_peace_by_winsord-d3jdih4______________________________________________

I am adding another subsection to my blog called Emulation. Reading through 1984, I absolutely fell in love with George Orwell’s writing style and what better way of developing as a writer than to learn from the best. This ideas goes back to my post “Standing on the Shoulder of Giants.” I’ll be adding more posts to this category as I come across more notable authors. I hope to develop a coherent and distinct writing style through this practice, and I hope you guys stay along for the ride. I’ll have the Chapter3 in tomorrow. Thanks for the patience and support!

 

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