The Anarchist (...Or About How Everything I Own Is Covered In A Fine Red Dust)

By C. Sean McGee

On the night of 'The March', The Teacher will find himself, in the most profound and liberating test of his ideals. Part philosophical and politcal satire, and part gut wrenching horror, The Anarchist, proving once again that C.SeanMcGee is to be found neither on the left nor the right of traditional and scholared ideology, points an ironic, poignant and articuate finger at idealism and its literal implications.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. Sean McGee
• Release date: Jul 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310062896

C. Sean McGee

"I write weird books."

Book preview

A short story by c.seanmcgee

The Anarchist

…or about how everything I own is covered in a fine red dust

The Anarchist

…Or about how everything I own is covered in a fine red dust

Copyright© 2014 Cian Sean McGee

Rotting Flower Publishing

‘The Free Art Collection’

Published at Smashwords

Araraquara, Brazil

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, scanning or digital information storage and retrieval without permission from the author.

Cover Design: C. Sean McGee

Interior layout: C. Sean McGee

This book was written under the influence of:

Edvard Grieg – Piano Concerto in A Minor: III

Chapter Zero

To live within is to live without, said The Teacher, moving around the classroom in slow steps, looking at the patterned tiles beneath his feet and ignoring his student’s gaping reactions, knowing that their awe was not in the definition of his words, but in the outline of his character.

You know, he said, all there is to know. You’ve seen every movie, you’ve watched every documentary, you’re out there living in it god damn it he shouted, his words, like tiny shards, spitting from his mouth and cutting through the air of professional naivety that was supposed to divide; he from his students and knowledge from the truth. You’re swimming in it, barely keeping your heads above this dank, fetid water; this cesspool of gluttonous ambition.

The Teacher stood like a messiah and spoke like a dictator. His every word was without hesitation; without doubt or indecision. He gripped his hands when he spoke as if he were strangling the gangly neck of the very authority he was denouncing. And though his arms were not shaped or muscular, he looked as if he were someone with whom one would not want to reckon. He looked as if, beneath his academic attire, like the young adults he was teaching, there swelled a sea of mutiny and rage, one of which might rise and swarm upon the shores of complacency at any second.

His beard was grown in. It was bushy, but it wasn’t unkempt. It looked conditioned and maintained. The young men in the class, they too wore beards, their faces like the smoothed and flattened ends of a brown bear’s arse, inspired by the man who gave them knowledge, inspiration, direction and who made them feel like they mattered.

The girls in the class, they all wanted to fuck him.

And the boys, they wanted to be him.

His name was Stephan, but that’s not important, for his students, those of whom fancied upon his every word and were bedazzled at his every conceivable idea, those of whom sat in pensive and undebatable attention and those of whom looked just like a much younger he, they referred to him by only one name, by only one title – Teacher.

Look at the poor today. Take minimum wage for example. The average family will bring in one fiftieth of what a banker does per month. What does their salary buy them? A shitty roof over their heads in some run down, dilapidated and derelict estate. No running water, no basic sanitation, disease and violence abounding, and at the end of it, barely enough money to put rice and beans on the table. So what you’re looking at is the majority of the country, travelling long distances to get to work and then living in wretched conditions with just enough money to eat, drink and be stupefied by the news, football, soap operas and game shows. They have just enough money to survive – to keep their head above water, but not enough to make a difference – to swim back to shore. You look back over the years, say go back two hundred years or so, take inflation all the way back, and what does that work out to – that minimum wage. What does that coil back to, working and toiling unreasonable hours and living in squalid conditions with nothing but scraps of food and the hope of not being whipped, the only gift for one’s servitude?

The students hung off his every word and he knew this, he was no amateur. The Teacher had delivered this sermon day after day, month after month and year after year; for such a