“Let’s continue where we left off yesterday. What’s your name, when and where were you born? Hellllloo!”

 

“Winston Smith,” the prisoner replies.

 

The vizier turns to the linguistics professor from the University of Alexandria. “Now you’ve heard it. Whenever we ask him a question, he remains silent or only answers with the same two words, winston and smith.”

 

The scholar stares into the man’s eyes. “My good fellow, do you realize you might be in serious trouble unless you cooperate?”

 

“Winston Smith.”

 

“Sorry,” the linguist tells the vizier, “winston and smith don’t ring a bell. Obviously not Egyptian, that we would understand. Nor Greek, Latin or Aramaic, I speak those languages fluently.” He turns back to the prisoner. “Where did you learn those foreign words?”

 

“Winston Smith.”

 

The professor scratches his head. “No, I don't recognize those words. We can also discount both Gaulish and Germanic, although smith might be from a strange Germanic dialect.” He sighs. “Sorry, friend, you’re being intransigent, so I cannot help you. What you keep repeating sounds esoteric, and may not even be real language.”

 

“Winston Smith.”

 

Then the vizier takes the prisoner to the courtroom.

 

Normally a jovial and compassionate man, the judge loses it in no time as the defendant answers every question with “Winston Smith.”

 

“It doesn’t make sense!” exclaims the judge. “Apparently winston and smith are not even words in any known language. Contempt of court, that’s exactly what you’re doing here. Just a few days ago you were an upright citizen, a good family man, the pharaoh’s chief geometrician, and then out of nowhere you decided to go out stir up trouble among the peasants and the slaves! What’s wrong with you?”

 

“Winston Smith.”

 

“Enough! That’s it. I sentence you to ten years of lavatory work in the central temple, during which you’re going to be allowed minimal interaction and only work-related communication with others. No contact with family or friends! More importantly, you’re not allowed to talk politics, and if you ever again utter those words, winston and smith, in public, I will extend your sentence to forced labor at the pyramids for the rest of your life.”

 

After they take the prisoner away, the vizier turns to the judge. “Isn’t that a little harsh? After all, winston and smith don’t mean anything. Could be gibberish from a poor guy who suddenly went mental for no good reason. Troubled soul, lost in his own world. Nowadays we see more and more of this kind.”

 

“Well, I agree, it could seem too harsh,” says the judge. “But truth be told, I just don’t care for the sound of ‘winston smith.’ After having heard it several times, there’s a certain subversive ring to it. What if too many other people start thinking of ‘winston smith?’ I sense potential danger lurking.”

 

First published in Dissident Voice, September 18, 2025.

 

 

Sweepstakes

👀 👀

Lucky this morning, I got the Loaf of Bread, the second highest prize in the festival’s random drawing. (First place, the Festival Medal is beautiful artwork but who can eat copper?)

 

The raffle is rigged that every attendee end up with a knickknack; this way all feel part of the Community. Still, I can read those jealous eyes, most wanted the Loaf of Bread.

 

My idiot brother has only received the Law. He shows me what it says, Thou Shalt Serve Those Superior To Thee.

 

“Cheer up, man,” I tell him. “At least you also got something.”

 

 

 

 

First published in Friday Flash Fiction on August 13, 2025.