Mantree
My name is Lin Quo McMurphy. I was a citizen of what once was the United States of America. I was once thirty-one years old and this is my journal.
It must have been in 2037 or 2038 that the right-wing extremists finally got their wish. They elected Obadiah Scudder for President. That would be the Right Reverend Obadiah Scudder, First Prophet, as his followers called him. With his amazing rise to power and the sweeping of both houses of the Congress by more of his followers, the country was set for some drastic changes.
The first drastic change occurred on January 24th, just four days after he was sworn in. President Scudder declared Marshall Law. All overseas troops were recalled. All embassies were closed, as were all borders. Over the next week, all newspapers, radio and TV stations were nationalized. On Valentine’s Day, the Congress was vacated and closed. A month later the Constitution was suspended, indefinitely.
All those who disagreed with the method and way that President Scudder was running the country were hauled before a military court and then shot—if they were lucky. Those unlucky enough not to be summarily executed were sent to Stonewall Prison—now renamed Stonewall Reclamation Center—and tortured, then broken. If they were fortunate, they died at the hands of their captors.
My wife and I went underground and became part of the resistance. I would have never thought in a million years that I would grow into someone who would be fighting for the overthrow of my government. But it wasn’t my government. Not anymore. I suppose it was a fool’s errand that thought we could remain hidden for any length of time. After all, we weren’t really hardcore revolutionaries. More like vocal protesters.
They came for us on July 2nd. We were with a friend of an unknown friend, who was a sympathizer, who was part of a cabal, who was...well you get the idea. It was a bit past 3 a.m. A group of eight heavily armed SWAT-type storm-troopers broke down the door. When they found us, my five-foot-two lioness-of-a-wife attacked them with a ten-inch skillet that she kept by the bedside for just such an event. She had twenty-seven bullets in her before she hit the floor. The troopers fired another hundred and sixty-one rounds into her, just to make sure she was really dead. The last thing I remember was being handcuffed, and then the butt of a rifle coming at me. Then darkness.
When I awoke, I found that I was a ‘guest’ of Stonewall. All my interrogators wanted to know was ‘who were my friends in the underground.’ I refused to tell them. Over the course of the next—weeks? months? I really don’t know. I lost all sense of time—I was questioned more and more forcibly. Torture really doesn’t describe it. Of course, I was beaten—with great regularity. When that failed to achieve the results my captors wanted, I was stripped naked and left outdoors in the snow for a few hours daily. What little food rations I had were cut in half. Electrodes were attached to various delicate parts of my body. But the worst of all was the sleep deprivation—seemingly endless days and nights of not being allowed to sleep, to dream.
Some immeasurable time later, three guards bathed me with a water canon from the doorway of my cell. I was given clothing and told to dress. I was then taken to my trial. I was found guilty, of course. The judge sensing, perhaps, that I would be unsuitable for hard labor, or that housing me in a jail was too costly, sentenced me to a ‘persistent vegetative state’ for the rest of my life. I was then taken back to my cell.
Sometime later I was taken to the infirmary. The doctor looked at the paperwork and merely grunted his assent. He turned to me and said, “Lin Quo McMurphy you have been found guilty of being an enemy of the state with no hope of reclamation. You are to be transformed into a persistent vegetative state…”
He droned on for a while, but I wasn’t really listening anymore. I was hoping that soon I would be released and I could join my wife. Of the transformation process I know very little. I was given a shot and then oblivion. I drifted between consciousness and unconsciousness. All I remember was a lot of tubing in me.
The first thing I became aware of as I fought my way back to consciousness was, much to my amazement, that I was still alive and that I was once again outside. But I wasn’t cold. It seemed to be late spring. The sun was shining and its warmth felt good. And someone was talking. When I finally realized he was speaking to me, I looked at him.
“Hi, there,” said the man gently. “My name is Fred Shilling, and I’ll be taking care of you from here on out.”
“Thank you,” I said. But the words didn’t sound like me speaking. They sounded stilted and flat. “Wh-where am I?”
“You’re in Washington, DC,” he replied. “Since the capital was moved to New Jerusalem, just outside of Omaha, not many people come here anymore. The street before you used to be called Constitution Avenue, but it’s now called Traitor’s Way, although most people refer to it as the Boulevard of Broken Dreamers.”
Just then a truck with glass panels for a storefront stopped in traffic directly in from of us. I glanced up and saw a man standing on a slightly raised platform and a…
Oh, dear G-d! Realizing the horror of what they had done to me. ‘A persistent vegetative state…’ Who would have thought that even they could be so cruel—to strip even the last vestiges of my humanity. I wailed. I moaned. And finally fell silent. I had heard that the government had found a new way to permanently silence their critics, but this?
“How?” I mumbled.
“The government realized that killing political prisoners, while expedient, could create martyrs. And killing martyrs is almost as hard as killing ideas. And even imprisoning people, while that did get them off the streets, was expensive and others still talked about them. But if you turned them into…”
“A tree!” I exploded. “They turned me into a fucking tree?”
“Yes,” said Shilling sadly. “A mantree. Planted on Traitor’s Way as a visible reminder to those who would rebel against the government. People will see you and fear the government even more.”
“I will speak out,” I decided.
“No,” he said. “You shouldn’t. It is against the law to listen to you. Doing so would mean imprisonment...or worse. Talking to you means immediate execution. Their corpse would be hung from your branches with a sign stitched to them saying, “This is what happens when you speak to a traitor.” A guard would be posted and ordered to ‘shoot-to-kill’ anyone who attempted to recover the body. Only after the weather had torn the clothing from their bodies and the insects and other animals had finished feasting on the remains would the family be allowed to remove the body.”
A sense of profound sadness and horror overwhelmed me. Shilling eventually went away. He returned several times over the ensuing months to pour minerals into the ground at my trunk and to trim my leaves.
It has been eighteen seasons since I was turned into a mantree. The city put a bus stop next to me. And, on the rare occasion that I listen, I found out that my friend Adam Lester (who was the first mantree) had died. They cut him up into boards and used him to make a new floor for the entrance to the so-called Ministry of Justice. I hope when I die, I will have a nobler fate. In the meantime, I grow larger. I drink deeply of the water and minerals from the earth below me and feast on the few hours of sunlight I receive daily.
My name was Lin Quo McMurphy and I stand as a silent sentinel of what was.
It must have been in 2037 or 2038 that the right-wing extremists finally got their wish. They elected Obadiah Scudder for President. That would be the Right Reverend Obadiah Scudder, First Prophet, as his followers called him. With his amazing rise to power and the sweeping of both houses of the Congress by more of his followers, the country was set for some drastic changes.
The first drastic change occurred on January 24th, just four days after he was sworn in. President Scudder declared Marshall Law. All overseas troops were recalled. All embassies were closed, as were all borders. Over the next week, all newspapers, radio and TV stations were nationalized. On Valentine’s Day, the Congress was vacated and closed. A month later the Constitution was suspended, indefinitely.
All those who disagreed with the method and way that President Scudder was running the country were hauled before a military court and then shot—if they were lucky. Those unlucky enough not to be summarily executed were sent to Stonewall Prison—now renamed Stonewall Reclamation Center—and tortured, then broken. If they were fortunate, they died at the hands of their captors.
My wife and I went underground and became part of the resistance. I would have never thought in a million years that I would grow into someone who would be fighting for the overthrow of my government. But it wasn’t my government. Not anymore. I suppose it was a fool’s errand that thought we could remain hidden for any length of time. After all, we weren’t really hardcore revolutionaries. More like vocal protesters.
They came for us on July 2nd. We were with a friend of an unknown friend, who was a sympathizer, who was part of a cabal, who was...well you get the idea. It was a bit past 3 a.m. A group of eight heavily armed SWAT-type storm-troopers broke down the door. When they found us, my five-foot-two lioness-of-a-wife attacked them with a ten-inch skillet that she kept by the bedside for just such an event. She had twenty-seven bullets in her before she hit the floor. The troopers fired another hundred and sixty-one rounds into her, just to make sure she was really dead. The last thing I remember was being handcuffed, and then the butt of a rifle coming at me. Then darkness.
When I awoke, I found that I was a ‘guest’ of Stonewall. All my interrogators wanted to know was ‘who were my friends in the underground.’ I refused to tell them. Over the course of the next—weeks? months? I really don’t know. I lost all sense of time—I was questioned more and more forcibly. Torture really doesn’t describe it. Of course, I was beaten—with great regularity. When that failed to achieve the results my captors wanted, I was stripped naked and left outdoors in the snow for a few hours daily. What little food rations I had were cut in half. Electrodes were attached to various delicate parts of my body. But the worst of all was the sleep deprivation—seemingly endless days and nights of not being allowed to sleep, to dream.
Some immeasurable time later, three guards bathed me with a water canon from the doorway of my cell. I was given clothing and told to dress. I was then taken to my trial. I was found guilty, of course. The judge sensing, perhaps, that I would be unsuitable for hard labor, or that housing me in a jail was too costly, sentenced me to a ‘persistent vegetative state’ for the rest of my life. I was then taken back to my cell.
Sometime later I was taken to the infirmary. The doctor looked at the paperwork and merely grunted his assent. He turned to me and said, “Lin Quo McMurphy you have been found guilty of being an enemy of the state with no hope of reclamation. You are to be transformed into a persistent vegetative state…”
He droned on for a while, but I wasn’t really listening anymore. I was hoping that soon I would be released and I could join my wife. Of the transformation process I know very little. I was given a shot and then oblivion. I drifted between consciousness and unconsciousness. All I remember was a lot of tubing in me.
The first thing I became aware of as I fought my way back to consciousness was, much to my amazement, that I was still alive and that I was once again outside. But I wasn’t cold. It seemed to be late spring. The sun was shining and its warmth felt good. And someone was talking. When I finally realized he was speaking to me, I looked at him.
“Hi, there,” said the man gently. “My name is Fred Shilling, and I’ll be taking care of you from here on out.”
“Thank you,” I said. But the words didn’t sound like me speaking. They sounded stilted and flat. “Wh-where am I?”
“You’re in Washington, DC,” he replied. “Since the capital was moved to New Jerusalem, just outside of Omaha, not many people come here anymore. The street before you used to be called Constitution Avenue, but it’s now called Traitor’s Way, although most people refer to it as the Boulevard of Broken Dreamers.”
Just then a truck with glass panels for a storefront stopped in traffic directly in from of us. I glanced up and saw a man standing on a slightly raised platform and a…
Oh, dear G-d! Realizing the horror of what they had done to me. ‘A persistent vegetative state…’ Who would have thought that even they could be so cruel—to strip even the last vestiges of my humanity. I wailed. I moaned. And finally fell silent. I had heard that the government had found a new way to permanently silence their critics, but this?
“How?” I mumbled.
“The government realized that killing political prisoners, while expedient, could create martyrs. And killing martyrs is almost as hard as killing ideas. And even imprisoning people, while that did get them off the streets, was expensive and others still talked about them. But if you turned them into…”
“A tree!” I exploded. “They turned me into a fucking tree?”
“Yes,” said Shilling sadly. “A mantree. Planted on Traitor’s Way as a visible reminder to those who would rebel against the government. People will see you and fear the government even more.”
“I will speak out,” I decided.
“No,” he said. “You shouldn’t. It is against the law to listen to you. Doing so would mean imprisonment...or worse. Talking to you means immediate execution. Their corpse would be hung from your branches with a sign stitched to them saying, “This is what happens when you speak to a traitor.” A guard would be posted and ordered to ‘shoot-to-kill’ anyone who attempted to recover the body. Only after the weather had torn the clothing from their bodies and the insects and other animals had finished feasting on the remains would the family be allowed to remove the body.”
A sense of profound sadness and horror overwhelmed me. Shilling eventually went away. He returned several times over the ensuing months to pour minerals into the ground at my trunk and to trim my leaves.
It has been eighteen seasons since I was turned into a mantree. The city put a bus stop next to me. And, on the rare occasion that I listen, I found out that my friend Adam Lester (who was the first mantree) had died. They cut him up into boards and used him to make a new floor for the entrance to the so-called Ministry of Justice. I hope when I die, I will have a nobler fate. In the meantime, I grow larger. I drink deeply of the water and minerals from the earth below me and feast on the few hours of sunlight I receive daily.
My name was Lin Quo McMurphy and I stand as a silent sentinel of what was.
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Dru Richman
A little older and a lot grayer but still pushing on
The winner of the first National Public Radio’s Selected Shorts Writing Contest, Mr. Richman’s work has also won contests at Writers of the Future, National Novel Writing Month, and has been featured in Writers and Readers’ Magazine, Blank Cover Press, The Lawrence House Centre for the Arts – Uproar Literary Magazine, Synkroniciti Magazine, Across the Margin Magazine, Adelaide Literary Magazine, and other journals and anthologies. Dru lives in Richardson, Texas (a suburb of Dallas), with wifey Ava, and their four-legged love child, a standard poodle named Jacob. |