Whispering Past the Graveyard
A Flash Science Fiction Story
Nobody knew where the whispers began. Perhaps some anonymous vlogger started them with a transgressive suggestion. Or maybe it was an obscure manifesto that almost nobody read. And when did they start? Was it in the spring of 2591? Or the summer of 2589? Or even as late as the turn of the century?
Everyone knew that by the tricentennial of the Klinegart Republic, in 2609, the whispers could be heard in the coffeehouses and salons, and in the corridors of the Klinegart Assembly, and in dark alleys in the capital city of Klinefelt.
Idle whispers. Rumors. Patently absurd. No doubt indicative of atmosphere of the troubled era they were living in. Klinegarters were always assuming the worst. Pessimism was just a part of the national character. The planetary republic had stood for three centuries. Klinegart had sent cosmonauts to the moons and to Ringon. Not even the defense minister could name a single external or internal threat capable of disrupting Pax Klinegart.
But some of the racier blogs and infohubs picked up the rumors. Eventually they seeped into the mainstream press and from there to the collective consciousness. Even out in the hinterlands, people were whispering.
Of course, it could never come to pass. The republic had long endured. Prosperity and stability were generally enjoyed by all.
But still, the rumors crept around the edges. Journalists wrote books. The chatterers began voicing aloud rumors, or rumor-adjacent whispers, speculating on televid nightly panels or opining in paywalled editorial threads.
But life was good in Klinegart. Mostly. At least for most people. Most of the time. Crime was increasing, and there was discontent among some hinterland provinces, but those were manageable problems. What did it hurt if some citizens made their money distributing pamphlets with words like, “late,” and “decline,” and “collapse,” and “obituary?” What harm could it do if audiocast hosts invited these authors onto their shows to give their audiences a taste of these “provocative” pamphlets?
The whispers grew louder until they became a roar. But still, nobody seriously thought anything would come of it. “That’s all well and fine, but nothing’s really going to happen,” they said on their broadcasts.
And then it did happen. Very slowly, and then all at once. No one was quite sure how. After the dust settled, it was clear some mobs had sparked a revolt. Some self-declared warlord from the provinces had marched in and declared the republic was over. The Assembly dissolved and the citizens fled Klinefelt and there was war across the planet and four new states carved themselves out of the hinterlands and more self-styled breakaway republics launched attacks on each other and there were proscriptions and hangings and all the statues of the Presidents of Klinegart were torn down from Klinestat Square and it was over.
And in the quiet alcoves that remained of what had been coffeehouses and salons – newly repurposed as opi-dens – a few of the whisperers gathered, afraid for their lives. Nobody could believe it had happened.
And they began to whisper again. To ask each other. To ask themselves. They needed reassurance. But none was forthcoming.
“How? How did it happen?”
“Do you think?”
“No, that’s preposterous.”
“Do you, do you think maybe, maybe, it was… us?”
“Surely you’re not suggesting.”
“Could we really have?”
“Did anybody listen?”
“No. Yes there were whispers, but nobody really believed the narrative. It was clever. But nobody believed it. Stories don’t come true. That’s all it was. A story. It can’t. It can’t be. It can’t have been. Can’t it?”