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    Daughters of Elysium
    Daughters of Elysium
    Daughters of Elysium
    Ebook121 pages1 hour

    Daughters of Elysium

    By Adam J. Ellison

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    About this ebook

    Election night in a united European Union, live from the European Broadcasting Corporation.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSea Lion Press
    Release dateOct 15, 2018
    ISBN9781386433446
    Daughters of Elysium
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      Book preview

      Daughters of Elysium - Adam J. Ellison

      Daughters of Elysium

      Adam J. Ellison

      First published by Sea Lion Press, 2018.

      Prologue

      Oxford

      June 11th, 2019

      9.48pm

      I’m sorry, sir – strictly tickets only.

      No no, it's quite alright, Arthur protested, holding one hand out as if in an attempt to ward off the bouncer and erratically ruffling through each of his pockets with the other. The biggest problem with going for the suit and purple tie, other than the fact that it made him look like a ponce, was that he had 12 different pockets to hide a ticket in.

      I’ve got it here somewhere, I was one of the first to buy one! I’m Secretary for the Co-op Club and-

      The bouncer failed to keep a sigh in; Artie guessed that the ageing Yorkshireman had heard more than his fair share of self-important students throw around petty club titles as if they meant anything.

      Sir, if you can’t find a ticket then you need to le-

      With far more drama than the situation demanded, Arthur whipped the scrap of paper from his breast pocket and held it high.

      Here you are! The bouncer nodded and gestured through the archway, where Artie joined a stream of ever-so-slightly intoxicated students and turned the corner into the bar. The Oxford Union was the place to be on election night (at least for those students who didn’t think that the place was an exclusive den of toffs, hacks, and ideologues). Entering the bar, Arthur found the room full to burst with a veritable rainbow of campaigners and one-day political hopefuls, gossiping and whispering in little colour coded groups around the room. Elections must have been a lot easier when there was a two-party system. Glancing about, it didn’t seem that any of his friends or even his colleagues in the club had made it out yet; probably too bougie for half of them anyway. Shrugging silently to himself, he turned to the bar itself and hopped up onto a stool.

      Pint of-

      SPECIAL PARTY COCKTAILS ONLY €2 EACH! exclaimed the rather excitable bartender, who had clearly been knocking himself back a coalition.

      Arthur forced a smile and tapped the round, wolf-bearing pin on his lapel. "I’ll take the… CoOp-racao." He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Taking a sip from the bright purple concoction, he tried his hardest not to gag and thanked God on high that he didn’t have to endure the Confeder-ol mix of Swedish larger and blue food dye. Wishing he’d gone for the pint instead, Artie checked his watch – 9.50, still a good ten minutes before the polls closed. He’d gotten his vote in, along with some pals, many hours earlier; it felt good to vote for the first time. He just hoped it’d mean something.

      AJ! he heard the voice a second before the hand collided into his back. Ever-so-slightly bruised, Arthur turned to find the somewhat intoxicated head of the Green/Red Oxford Alliance standing before him. How are you, old sport?

      Arthur smiled. All right, Mike – but aren’t you meant to call me comrade or something? ‘Old sport’ is far too reactionary for the future hero of the revolution. Michael Gwenyn was a round, red-faced man with an ill-fitting red and green t-shirt and a few randomly scattered tufts of stubble on his face.

      Oh, come on Artie – you of all people know that the revolution is so much bigger than that. We’re in for a good night, I feel. By ‘we’, Mike meant the Left-Ecologist coalition; he seemed to be the only person on earth who thought they stood any chance of not getting obliterated. Panting and somewhat wobbly, Mike grabbed himself a stool and pulled up to the table. Noticing Arthur’s almost entirely untouched drink, he offered his own (which was, for some reason, a rather suspicious yellow colour).

      Ours is watermelon!

      Appropriate! Ours is shit.

      Also appropriate! Mike winked and Arthur gave him a punch in the arm before making a final attempt at his curacao-based nightmare. Heard anything from your HQ? Mike asked.

      Artie bit his lip. No, but no news is bad news. You?

      Mike shrugged. Polling’s bad – but what can you expect when a cabal of half a dozen businessmen own all the polling companies? First policy should be nationalising the poll companies. They both forced out a chuckle; if the evidence panned out then the night was going to be a punishing one for the pair of them.

      Anyway, here’s to smashing capitalism. As they toasted the coming socialist victory, a couple in almost-matching colours sat down next to them.

      Evening boys, Hugh Lane said, smiling. His foppish blonde hair, neat RAF style moustache and clean navy suit marked him out as every bit the stereotypical public-school boy. The affected accent helped, as did the oversized rosette loudly bearing the words VOTE TORY, VOTE CONFEDERAL!

      Alright Hugh, Artie replied and, glancing at the garish adornment. You do know you’re not actually running for office yet?

      Making a noise that could only be interpreted as a guffaw and stroking one side of his moustache with a thumb, Hugh replied "Give it a year or four; I’ve already got an internship lined up in the Treasury. Daddy was fag for the Chancellor."

      Dreading the day that he ever made it into power, Arthur turned to the woman on his right. Good to see you, Anna.

      Annabel Adler nodded confidently and grinned. Good to see you too, Artie; Mike. I think it's going to be an extremely exciting night for all of us. Anna’s Hamburg roots were easy to hear, but her two-and-a-half years at Oxford – as well as her role within the tiny British branch of the Christian People’s Party – had blended in elements of an RP accent. 

      You’re going to lose seats, you know, Mike said; Anna nodded confidently.

      "Of course; it has been a hard few years for the union, but Mutti is as popular as ever – and honestly, when have we ever done as poorly as that last poll said? They were wrong in ‘09, they’ll be wrong tonight."

      Conventional wisdom – and, indeed, the conventional powers that be – had been saying such things for months.

      Anyway, everyone is happier and richer than ever!

      Tell that to the homeless. opined Arthur.

      And the unemployed. Mike joined in.

      And the Army! Hugh finished, desperate to be included.

      She batted away their points as if they were a particularly annoying fly. Technicalities! It’s going to be another boring night, just like the last four.

      Just as she finished talking, the laughter and warmth of the room faded a little. A procession of men – and only men – stomped in, most of them clad in black, perfectly-ironed shirts that were just irregular enough to fall short of a uniform. Their timing had to be deliberate; Arthur wondered if they’d just been poised, waiting outside the door for their dramatic entrance.

      Fascist pigs, Mike spat, following them as they migrated towards a back corner of the bar. Why the fuck they aren’t banned I’ll never know.

      Now now, Hugh waggled a bony finger and grinned, The Vigilants are a good sort – proper Patriots. A little brash, sure; but I promise you they’re sound, sound gents. Why, I see at least one Churchill in there.

      Artie patted Mike on the back, Don’t worry mate, we’ll send ‘em packing. We all know Anna’s lot are going to win anyway.

      TURN IT UP IT'S COMING ON someone shouted from the back of the room. Immediately, a hundred pairs of eyes snapped to the massive LCD in front of

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