Edited by Sarah Waring, Thursday, 11 Oct 2018, 14:33
I take a look around at my audience and breathe in the air of greed and morality, or lack of. Solid wooden panels grace the walls with their medieval feel of labour, the ceiling is high and uninviting, and the jurors are tucked firmly away in their seating of authority. I clear my throat and adjust my oversized wig, to literally, take on the world. I slam my wooden gavel on the sound block before me to remind my audience of who is now in charge.
‘Leaders of the world, please take to your seats. As I am now judge of the world, you will listen to me and only me. God has placed me in his hands to sort out the mess you have made. He admits that he has taken his eye off the ball somewhat, but now I am here as your judgement. I am here to tackle the issue of the GREAT DIVIDE in our society.’ I clear my throat once again.
‘How do you plead to the misuse of the word poverty?’
The short, plump representative jumps up, pushes her hair behind her ears and forces her glasses in place.
‘Guilty Ma’am.’
‘Speak up dear.’ I bellow across the room in all my authority.
‘Guilty Ma’am.’ She shouts across the room
I get a little agitated before I make a little unrehearsed moral speech. ‘Poverty is not a word to be used lightly. Look around your countries; you claim you support developing nations, but what you are showing is another form of poverty. Relative poverty. Always wanting to be better, regardless of what is happening around the world. Shame on you!’
I shuffle some papers to look important before I make my verdict. ‘I sentence you all to live together in a life of communism, where you will all live, share and play fair.’
I sit back and listen to the uproar from the audience until I silence them once again with my little wooden gavel. The room drops silent and the little, plump lady, I really must catch her name, approaches my desk.
‘Ma’am, could I possibly…’
I wipe the corners of my mouth with a serviette to rid the surplus supply of clotted cream from the delightful scones I have just consumed, before interrupting.
‘What is your name dear?’
She looks puzzled. ‘It’s Laurel, Ma’am.’
‘How splendid, although I thought that was a man’s name, like Laurel and hardy...oh they were such fun. Anyway, there is no time for this; we have important work to do here. What is it?’
‘Well, the accused would like to know who would be ruling their countries in their absence.’
I smile in adoration of my creativity, and once more I approach my audience.
‘Please take a look at the jurors, as they will be deciding your next fates. I’m sure you will understand the diversity of the chosen subjects.’ They all turn to the jury and bow their heads in shame, apart from the odd narcissists who are in complete denial.
In the jury, the seating area hosts a range of underprivileged citizens from around the world. I walk out of my high seated wooden area and continue to pace the floors, using the space as a theatre for my soapbox performance. I acknowledge a woman famous for pouring millions of pounds into art culture and ask a poignant question while pointing to a lady in the jury.
‘What makes you believe that you are better than this woman here? This woman lives on a spoon of rice a day if she is lucky, dirty water- if she is lucky-has an incurable disease and a child that is so malnourished, she will lucky if she makes tomorrow.’
The woman in question looks confused but hits back. ‘If we send money to third world countries, only a small proportion goes to the people, and sometimes the government get it and spend it on weapons. That has been known! I’m no better than the lady In front of me, but I can’t help her.’
I step back feeling a little deflated, but I move forward again. ‘Mistakes are made, but giving up should not be an option. Cultural art is empowering; it spreads hope, information and morality. I agree it has a presence in this world BUT is this relative poverty? Do you spend money on charity?Large charities also take a cut for marketing and promotional fees up to 60% in the UK as an example. Is that also a waste of time and money because the intended recipient does not get the full cut. Isn't some better than none?'
I turn around to face a young man, new in his leadership of one of the richest countries in the world. ‘Young man, does this older gentleman here, with his ailments and his severe multiple sclerosis pain, deserve help? Would you help him?’
He is quick to answer. ‘Yes, in our country we have universal benefits, an allowance for support with his care and…’
‘Ahhh yes, but he is not in your country. Would you be able to help?’
He hesitates. ‘Well, there is not much I can do but…’
I do not allow him to continue ‘Enough… you answer my question.’
I pull out a kane from behind the secretary’s booth and tap it on my hands, and I smile as I see my audience squirm. I use it, in turn, to point to my jurors.
‘Allow me to introduce my jurors, in turn; I won’t use names because they represent a range of society. We have; a slave, a homeless man, an orphan, a child prostitute, a woman with severe learning disabilities, an elderly man with no literacy, a starving woman from a developing country, an elderly gentleman with MS, an abused woman in government care, a war widow, a war survivor and a fox.’
They all look confused, and I smile and speak once again. ‘Oh, you look confused about the fox, but nothing else. Interesting.’
I run up to my desk, lift my long black cloak, and I stand on the chair in an attempt to make it my soapbox. ‘Why do think the Fox should not be there?’ I point to a man with strange floppy hair. He replies in a manner a little too sarcastic for my liking. ‘Because it’s an animal, it cannot run our country.’
I laugh, ‘Aha, maybe not, but he represents what is wrong with this world. Foxes are killed because they are vermin, but who decides that? Who decides if they are better than us or not? We are all the same, born with nothing and will leave with nothing. We are all equal.’ I jump down, and I make my way back into my theatre.
‘The jury is now your rulers, and you are now their disciples; the Fox is your mascot and represents equality in a world when there is none.’ I call in my army of children from developing countries. ‘Take them to their commune, children and tonight we will all meet and feast like a king. Case closed.’
I slam my gavel for the last time and as I do so I awake, startled, in my bed that is situated in a little three bed semi in middle England.
My husband grunts as he recalls how I kept him awake with my ramblings. I fling my head back in disappointment as I recall my attempt to close this GREAT DIVIDE that we have in our world of relative poverty, and I decide it is the last time I watch Judge Rinder, and a documentary of slavery in the same day.
The Great Divide- A short story about authority
I take a look around at my audience and breathe in the air of greed and morality, or lack of. Solid wooden panels grace the walls with their medieval feel of labour, the ceiling is high and uninviting, and the jurors are tucked firmly away in their seating of authority. I clear my throat and adjust my oversized wig, to literally, take on the world. I slam my wooden gavel on the sound block before me to remind my audience of who is now in charge.
‘Leaders of the world, please take to your seats. As I am now judge of the world, you will listen to me and only me. God has placed me in his hands to sort out the mess you have made. He admits that he has taken his eye off the ball somewhat, but now I am here as your judgement. I am here to tackle the issue of the GREAT DIVIDE in our society.’ I clear my throat once again.
‘How do you plead to the misuse of the word poverty?’
The short, plump representative jumps up, pushes her hair behind her ears and forces her glasses in place.
‘Guilty Ma’am.’
‘Speak up dear.’ I bellow across the room in all my authority.
‘Guilty Ma’am.’ She shouts across the room
I get a little agitated before I make a little unrehearsed moral speech. ‘Poverty is not a word to be used lightly. Look around your countries; you claim you support developing nations, but what you are showing is another form of poverty. Relative poverty. Always wanting to be better, regardless of what is happening around the world. Shame on you!’
I shuffle some papers to look important before I make my verdict. ‘I sentence you all to live together in a life of communism, where you will all live, share and play fair.’
I sit back and listen to the uproar from the audience until I silence them once again with my little wooden gavel. The room drops silent and the little, plump lady, I really must catch her name, approaches my desk.
‘Ma’am, could I possibly…’
I wipe the corners of my mouth with a serviette to rid the surplus supply of clotted cream from the delightful scones I have just consumed, before interrupting.
‘What is your name dear?’
She looks puzzled. ‘It’s Laurel, Ma’am.’
‘How splendid, although I thought that was a man’s name, like Laurel and hardy...oh they were such fun. Anyway, there is no time for this; we have important work to do here. What is it?’
‘Well, the accused would like to know who would be ruling their countries in their absence.’
I smile in adoration of my creativity, and once more I approach my audience.
‘Please take a look at the jurors, as they will be deciding your next fates. I’m sure you will understand the diversity of the chosen subjects.’ They all turn to the jury and bow their heads in shame, apart from the odd narcissists who are in complete denial.
In the jury, the seating area hosts a range of underprivileged citizens from around the world. I walk out of my high seated wooden area and continue to pace the floors, using the space as a theatre for my soapbox performance. I acknowledge a woman famous for pouring millions of pounds into art culture and ask a poignant question while pointing to a lady in the jury.
‘What makes you believe that you are better than this woman here? This woman lives on a spoon of rice a day if she is lucky, dirty water- if she is lucky-has an incurable disease and a child that is so malnourished, she will lucky if she makes tomorrow.’
The woman in question looks confused but hits back. ‘If we send money to third world countries, only a small proportion goes to the people, and sometimes the government get it and spend it on weapons. That has been known! I’m no better than the lady In front of me, but I can’t help her.’
I step back feeling a little deflated, but I move forward again. ‘Mistakes are made, but giving up should not be an option. Cultural art is empowering; it spreads hope, information and morality. I agree it has a presence in this world BUT is this relative poverty? Do you spend money on charity?Large charities also take a cut for marketing and promotional fees up to 60% in the UK as an example. Is that also a waste of time and money because the intended recipient does not get the full cut. Isn't some better than none?'
I turn around to face a young man, new in his leadership of one of the richest countries in the world. ‘Young man, does this older gentleman here, with his ailments and his severe multiple sclerosis pain, deserve help? Would you help him?’
He is quick to answer. ‘Yes, in our country we have universal benefits, an allowance for support with his care and…’
‘Ahhh yes, but he is not in your country. Would you be able to help?’
He hesitates. ‘Well, there is not much I can do but…’
I do not allow him to continue ‘Enough… you answer my question.’
I pull out a kane from behind the secretary’s booth and tap it on my hands, and I smile as I see my audience squirm. I use it, in turn, to point to my jurors.
‘Allow me to introduce my jurors, in turn; I won’t use names because they represent a range of society. We have; a slave, a homeless man, an orphan, a child prostitute, a woman with severe learning disabilities, an elderly man with no literacy, a starving woman from a developing country, an elderly gentleman with MS, an abused woman in government care, a war widow, a war survivor and a fox.’
They all look confused, and I smile and speak once again. ‘Oh, you look confused about the fox, but nothing else. Interesting.’
I run up to my desk, lift my long black cloak, and I stand on the chair in an attempt to make it my soapbox. ‘Why do think the Fox should not be there?’ I point to a man with strange floppy hair. He replies in a manner a little too sarcastic for my liking. ‘Because it’s an animal, it cannot run our country.’
I laugh, ‘Aha, maybe not, but he represents what is wrong with this world. Foxes are killed because they are vermin, but who decides that? Who decides if they are better than us or not? We are all the same, born with nothing and will leave with nothing. We are all equal.’ I jump down, and I make my way back into my theatre.
‘The jury is now your rulers, and you are now their disciples; the Fox is your mascot and represents equality in a world when there is none.’ I call in my army of children from developing countries. ‘Take them to their commune, children and tonight we will all meet and feast like a king. Case closed.’
I slam my gavel for the last time and as I do so I awake, startled, in my bed that is situated in a little three bed semi in middle England.
My husband grunts as he recalls how I kept him awake with my ramblings. I fling my head back in disappointment as I recall my attempt to close this GREAT DIVIDE that we have in our world of relative poverty, and I decide it is the last time I watch Judge Rinder, and a documentary of slavery in the same day.
The End