My Time
I'll begin by thanking all who are reading this. I have been chosen to speak on behalf of many people you will never get to know, and I only hope I can properly represent them. There were a lot of discussions on whether or not this letter should be written and the consequences that may result from it. In the end, it was decided that the future you have given us is now our present, and therefore cannot be changed. Try to remain open-minded when I tell you that I currently live in the year 2087.
Like my grandfather, I hold a genuine interest in community development and the politics that carry it along. Although a lot of things have changed over the years, the process through which ideas become reality is still a slow one. The elected men and women that shape our surroundings are often criticized for appearing sluggish in their decisions, but trust me when I say it is important to consider every side to a story before approving it for publishing. Democracy is now a global philosophy in my time, and even with its flaws, it is the most efficient and fair way of getting things done.
I am very familiar with the world you now live in, especially the villages around Cape Sable Island and Barrington. My parents continued documenting the area's history after my grandfather passed away, and there was a large room in our home dedicated to the thousands of pages collected by them over the years. When I was a young girl, I remember slipping in there after school while my parents were at work, the room off-limits to us kids. One day, I came across a faded white binder with The Hawk Road written on the front. There were many stories dealing with local subjects inside, some silly and some serious. I read every one at least twice, then one day decided to ask Dad about it. He smiled even though I had disobeyed him. He turned on the wall-screen, and spoke, "The hawk road dot com" into the speaker. A virtual Assistant appeared on the screen wearing a sou-wester and rubber boots. Through voice commands, he navigated to something called The Rumour Clipboard.
Dad explained that it had been around for forty-five years and was one of the first places people could go and write their thoughts down for everyone to see. He left the room and told me to take a look around after I registered an account with the Assistant. Before long, it was time for bed. As he tucked me in he told me he had a surprise, and instead of loading a 3-D book into the far wall like he usually did, he opened an old-looking paper folder and began reading with his voice, something he had never done. He did this almost every night for months, reading the thoughts of those so many years before, until one day he brought a large box into my room filled with many of the same folders. He told me I could read them myself from now on. As I finished one box, he would take it and bring me another. Mom found this interest of mine strange at such a young age, but I heard Dad tell her quietly one night that history shouldn't answer to time.
The folders were more fragile and their pages barely readable as the last of the boxes were finished. One day, after my sixteenth birthday, Dad gave me the last box. He told me to read it carefully and slowly, and to let him know when I was finished. I told him I would. The posts were generally sloppy, often veering off topic, with quite a lot of swearing and anger toward fellow members. It was kind of like reading the walls of a bathroom stall. I found it fascinating, though, and started to realize why Dad had singled out its importance.
"You always have to start somewhere," Dad said when I returned those last folders to him. "That box you're holding was the beginning of a lot of changes for people around here. It may not be as organized and complex as the Clipboard today, but it is more pure and real. That was the first time people could speak up from the safety of their own homes without being embarrassed or ridiculed to their face. When you look past the silliness and bad spelling, you can hear the true voices of people long gone in those old faded pages right there."
Dad was right. The Clipboard today is subject to a review panel that rejects most of the posts it receives, and edits the ones that are approved to its liking. Dad said this began after a policeman was accused of cheating on his spouse in an anonymous member's post, later proven to be his angry wife. Even after it was found to be true, the site administrators felt the public had been given too much power, and thought it was necessary to supervise them. Eventually, only government employees and respected community members even bothered to submit their posts. Then, satellite broadcasts and electronic newspapers were being reviewed and re-worded to the satisfaction of those with the most to lose. Life is good depsite living in a censored world. However, when I read those early pages that Grampa archived with his primitive laser printer, I can't help but be a little jealous. The freedom to speak was much more than the faint whispers we're allowed today.
What happened around here over the years? Well, much of what you requested in those early days gradually found their place. A movie theatre was built where the machine shop down the road from the old high school used to be. A great park was designed where the gravel mounds now sit behind Radio Shack, complete with a wave pool and memorial beach recognizing the extinct piping plover. A suspended pedestrian bridge was built to Cape Sable Island, and four lanes of traffic now carry electrical cars along the busy commercial district stretching from Woods Harbour to Clyde. Almost everyone eats freeze-dried food, but Taco Bell managed to survive the fast-food crash of the 30's and sits where MacDonald's once did. There are forty-two wind turbines on the Island, and a complex hydro dam that harnesses the power of the tide through the Hawk channel. After building an expensive indoor pool and several other physically-oriented forms of entertainment, the municipality was forced to close them as electronic technologies became the pass-time of choice among all ages. A new high school was completed in 2012, and was praised as being a great achievement in architecture, made entirely of recycled asbestos. Lately, many of the children have been getting ill, and tests are being done.
As methods of communication using wire networks became obsolete, scientists took their knowledge of radio waves one step further. They discovered a way to send digital signals through time, and began "talking" with early computer pioneers from the late 1980's to the present day. All attempts to change the course of history failed, however, and it was found that only one aspect of the past could be altered. Of course, that one changeable element was the very technology that had made "Time Talk" possible. In other words, only the stepping stones along the path of history that led to the discovery of Time Talk could be changed. It didn't take my fellow scholars long to realize that we could in fact correct the mistakes that led to the censorship and Free Speech restrictions of my present time. Here in the future, we could encourage those in the past to walk their digital path with better results.
Which brings me to the reason why you, the members of The Hawk Road, have been identified as the first link in the chain that eventually leads to the problems of my time. This October, the wife of the policeman mentioned earlier will register with the Clipboard. She will become a frequent poster, and her avatar will be a photo of a centipede. One evening she will add a topic called "Cheaters", and will state that she is wondering what a woman should do if she is being cheated on. The first reply will be by a user named "PotOfGold", and he will tell her that's she's probably making it up to get attention. She then blurts out specific details in frustration, pretending to be a friend of the policeman's wife. This one small action will lead to public pressure that calls for administrative approval for all posts. From there, a series of similar events gather momentum until it becomes a national, then global, concern.
As strange as it may sound, the time I live in is defined by one person's decision to be mean instead of nice.
My name is ShadowBox64, and you may know my grandfather, Mudcat, an early Hawk Road member who worked hard to make your town a better place to live in.
