Five Successive Blows By A Gigantic Fist

01.29.2015 – 02.19.2015


The most highly regarded position in the town of F was that of the whistleblower.

The person currently occupying the title, was, as such, the recipient of unbridled praise and admiration. Much like the relentless nature of the people’s veneration, their work knew no end.

Stationed at a post in the center of F’s convoluted network of streets, the whistleblower conducted the flow of traffic throughout the city, their instrument’s sound piercing through the bustling metropolitan hub to the nameless dirt roads on the outskirts. The citizens of F took pride in this system, founded generations prior and therefore never questioned, because it presumed a compliance among them, secured by a single whistle.

But the whistleblower had grown tired.

This was not due to the physical demands of the task, though they were significant: the strain it placed on their lungs, the heaviness it bred in their arms as they conducted some hopeful symphony of traffic regularity. No, it was their growing disillusion with the law itself that produced their weariness.

Each civilian’s greeting of adulation did little to deaden the sounds of vehicles careening into each other within city limits, falling prey to a system that was too idealistic, and therefore cruel. The whistleblower knew their instrument could not, and should not, act as unerring law.

And so, one Monday afternoon, they leapt over the bannister, barreled down the stairs, and ran rapidly towards their apartment, keeping their gaze downward to avoid conversation. Cars flailed about, grinding to chaotic halts. The people of F pulled themselves out of the wreckage, stunned, as an unprecedented silence fell.

Then, slowly, the citizens moved towards the whistleblower’s apartment complex, coagulating into a lurching, moaning mass with arms upraised. “Oh whistleblower,” they cried, “why have you abandoned your post? Come back to us, oh valiant one, make haste! Produce your audile harbinger of order!”

The whistleblower ripped open their curtains and bellowed through the window, “No singular person should hold so much blind power!”

They crooned helplessly, they begged, they wept: “Do not force us to review the failures of our forebears! Reinstate the harmony your lungs are so capable of!” They tugged at their skirts, they wrung their hands.

The curtains remained drawn, but no sound emitted from within.