8/21/50 At least Big Brother isn’t watching me. I’ve read 1984.
My name is Carroll. At least, that’s what I’m called. It’s actually my surname. My given name is Clarke. Yeah, like Superman, I know. I’ve heard it before. I won’t ramble. Paper is hard to come by these days. My students have to write on the chalkboard more often than not, and I’ve written to the gov’t about it, but they have yet to respond. Most people are getting computers, but I cannot possibly afford one. I can’t even afford health insurance, for crying out loud. Today was one of those days. Hot, humid, muggy, the pollution from all the buildings forming a cloud just above the streets. I’m lucky my students haven’t seen me cough up a lung yet. Yet. It’s bound to happen soon. I have weak lungs, and the smog makes it hard to breathe sometimes, which is why I prefer winter over summer, spring, and fall, despite the fact that my apartment is dreadfully cold in the winter. I should stop and save paper.

Carroll paused, his pen hovering above the sheet of paper. Finally, he decided to continue.

But I won’t. I have a lot to say. It is August 21st, 2050, and not long ago, communism descended over Canada. Well, not all of Canada. Just Quebec, Ontario, BC, and Saskatchewan, but it won’t be long until all of Canada is communist. I was born in 2028, but I don’t know what month or day. My parents were activists- that is, actively against communism. My mother died in childbirth and my father was shot by a police officer on the day I was born. I was taken in by the neighbours.

I currently live with an assortment of colleagues and friends, which makes it easier to buy necessities. Our apartment is in Toronto, or York as it’s now being called. Sarah, one of the girls I live with, is a historian, and she told me that York is what Toronto used to be called. I made a joke about history repeating itself and she laughed, but I think she wanted to cry. I’m much younger than my friends. George is a politician, Michael is a doctor, Julie is a librarian, Ronny is a police woman, and I am a school teacher. Michael and Julie are expecting a baby, and we’re all sure it will be a girl. Six, soon to be seven people, in a single, two-bedroom apartment. But we get by. George and Michael are brothers, the children of the people who took me in. So, in a sense, they’re my brothers, too.

Earlier, I mentioned that paper is scarce. So, what am I writing in then? I found an empty journal in my desk at the school. Empty! I know I should use the paper for my kids, but... I have a lot on my mind. I’ll keep it hidden. The pages are old and yellow, and the binding looks like it would fall apart if you shook it too hard. There’s a name in the front, too. K. Carroll I think it was my mother’s. There’s a letter on one of the pages, but I can’t read it. I think it’s in French, so I might have to show Julie.

Julie was originally from Quebec, but she moved here for some reason. She said that things are worse in Montreal, something I find hard to believe. It cannot get much worse than this. At the end of each month, every person, working or no, receives a cheque for 800$ to buy food and clothes with. It could be lower, but communist society believes that we proletarians are the source of wealth, so they try to be somewhat nice. At the market, by the time Michael and Ronny get there, all that is left are the least or second-least fresh products, but Sarah and Julie can make a meal out of potatoes and going-stale bread, so that’s all right.

Once a week, I take all the clothing to the launders to get cleaned. Once, I lost everyone’s clothing and I just about killed my self. Clothing, unless you make it yourself, is really expensive. You can buy cloth and wool from this store near my school, though from what I have heard, the owners have to give half of their profits to the gov’t and only receive 400$ per month. Oh, and mentioning my school, I have to buy the books and pencils, all of that, on my own. Just for my class, though. Once, I surprised them all with coloured pencils and no schoolwork for half of the day, because I was feeling really sick. One of my girls, Jane, pointed out blood on my collar. Fortunately, little kids are easy to fool, so I told her I had had an accident, no big deal. Every few months, Michael takes everyone to one of the big clothing stores and lets us all pick a couple of things. Last time we went, I picked out a pair of jeans and a new coat for winter, smart things. Most of the time, though, Julie makes our clothes. I think I should end that here, to save paper.

Carroll put down his pen and blew gently on the ink, so as to dry it faster. He read the page and a half that he had filled, and decided to write about something more interesting the next time he picked it up. Closing it carefully, he tucked it under the mattress and blew out the candle he had been writing by.



Later, much later, George crept into the bedroom he shared with Carroll and Veronica, the latter of whom had nodded off in a chair in the main room. He noticed his surrogate brother sound asleep in the bed they shared, and smiled. ‘Poor kid,’ he thought. ‘Doesn’t get enough sleep.’ He ruffled Carroll’s mop of blond hair, and in the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a book corner, stuffed under the mattress. Crouching in front of the bed, he tugged it away, then opened it to the first page.

This book belongs to: K. Carroll

George started, looking from the book to his little blond buddy, then back again. ‘Huh. Weird...’ He looked back at the page. The fact that it was written in French did not deter him; being fluent in French was a requirement in his line of work.

It is August the 13th, and it is Friday. Bad luck. Joseph is not back yet and I am worried. I am positive that tonight is the night; the night our son is born. And he is not here. I am sore and upset, sure signs that I am soon to deliver. The midwife is not here yet, I am all alone. I am writing to calm myself down, and it is not working. My contractions have started. I

The text cut off there, though there was a dark stain near the bottom of the page. Looking closely, George could tell it was blood. He flipped the page and was mildly surprised to see a change in writing and language.

8/21/50 At least Big Brother isn’t watching me...

‘Well,’ George though, closing the book and replacing it, ‘Happy belated, bud.’

---

Now, if you're reading this it means that you actually read the whole literary barf up there. You get cookies. Now, for a bit of an explanation. In the actual word document, the journal entry is clumped together. Carroll is trying to save paper, for reasons that are explained in the above text. There is a chance that I will continue this, just not on Gaia... or online, for that matter. If anyone could point out mistakes, or give me a little push to continue writing this, that would be simply amazing.