A Chip in the Shoulder by Johnny Barclay
A conversation between Coat Hanger (CH) from 2848 A.D. and a Cunning Male Witch in 1348 A.D.
CH “Hello, hello, Coat Hanger here calling Cunning Male Witch. Have I made contact?”
CMW “Loud and clear in this hot, cramped and dusty plague-ridden world of London. Black death, people dropping like flies. A healing witch, that’s me, no brews or potions.
Stroking or spitting work best, though neither much use for this plague. Scrofula’s my speciality. How’s it going for you?”
CH “Ahh, peaceful and safe up here. Home, if you can call it home, is high up on a mountainside in a giant cloakroom lined with hangers, rows upon rows of them reaching towards the horizon. An infinite space. But no sign of coats or clothes, just limp, floppy shapes like rag-dolls hung up as if to dry, lifeless and resting upon the shoulders of the hangers.”
CMW “All sounds a bit odd to me and dull too, compared with my life.”
CH “In a way it is. The problem now is that much of the world is under water. The ice has long since melted, sea levels have risen. London was washed away years ago and very little of the so-called civilised world is left – hence our mountainous location.”
CMW ’So what sort of existence does that leave for you?”
CH “That’s where science is very clever. I have a tiny chip in my shoulder, along with all the other hangers, to give me my own unique personality. My chip is my brain which lasts forever – eternal life – safe and secure where fear of death is eliminated. I only have to think something and, thanks to my trusty chip, I can go anywhere and do anything I want. Lucky me.”
CMW “Yes, lucky you. Witches aren’t that popular in London so I’m envious in a way. But being male and in some circles thought of as a wise man with astrology up my sleeve as well, I do get away with things more than my female counterparts. This means, mercifully, I am less likely to be burnt.”
CH “No chance of that in my cloakroom. Genders have long since become blurred. Men and women, sex and procreation went out the window, worst luck. I think it was the fear of death that came to dominate things to such an extent that all risks had to be obliterated in favour of everlasting bliss in the cloakroom. All that is left now are desiccated and emaciated skins, infinite and unvaried. No need ever again, thank goodness, for legal or insurance advice. Just a chip in the shoulder for company.”
CMW “Quite a story that is, Coat Hanger. But I think on balance I prefer my life of stroking and spitting, living in a land where every day is a survival test and life expectancy limited. That’s my world. Keep using your chip and thinking of us witches, and we can speak again next year.”
Simon Says:
I always like a juicy pun and the title of this is a good example of the genre. I also like the inventiveness of bringing together a Coat Hanger in 2848 and a Cunning Male Witch in 1348. Truly, there are no limits to the human imagination. There is a long history of dystopian futures in literature and I like the way the detail of the 2848 world is built up. Like the best fantasy worlds, it is founded on possibility. Who can say what will be left when global warming melts all of the ice? I used the word ‘dystopian’ but perhaps, for the Coat Hanger, it’s actually a utopian future. He/she seems relatively happy with life in the ‘infinite space’ of the ‘giant cloakroom’. The antiseptic nature of his/her environment is nicely contrasted with the squalor of the medieval London inhabited by the Cunning Male Witch. But the balance between the two lifestyles is maintained. ‘Lucky me,’ says the Coat Hanger. The Cunning Male Witch agreed, but is only ‘envious in a way.’ It’s left to the reader to decide whether they prefer the bloodless serenity of the science fiction future or the dangerous vigour of the Middle Ages. A splendidly imaginative piece of writing.