Ken Oshiro’s Rebellion
by Maia del Mar
The High President leaned back into his orange and black plumage, gazing down with heavy lids at the performance of the Thousand Sunburst Guitars. All one thousand player’s heads were angled correctly, to him and to their painted instruments. All two thousand expert hands moved in unison over polished frets, keeping impeccable time. Satisfied, the President’s mind rested within his own perfection. The precise roar of the instruments enveloped him and the Ninety Nine Technocrats of The President’s Aura like the breeze that ruffled their embroidered finery, as they sat high in the stands, squinting in the afternoon glow of the First Sun.
Then, something down on the field, something small, the tiniest thing, something disturbed The High President’s perception of harmony. His eye twitched. A mistake, could it be? Almost a bad note, one of his glorious guitars glaringly off pitch for an entire note. As he shifted forward on his velvet Friday Throne, many of the Ninety Nine Technocrats turned in barely constrained alarm as the President’s brow… furrowed. What was it? Which head? Ah, that one. The Technocrats resisted pointing and gasping as they followed the President’s gaze downward onto the manicured parade ground. That one there! Turning only slightly, the President gestured to The First Citizen of the Pen, who knelt on one knee beside him, eyes averted, and proffered the sacred feathered pen beside a priceless writing skin. The president slowly and deliberately made the numbers: three, one, seven. The mistake had come from Sunburst Guitar Instrumentalist 317, by decree of the President. A mistake was intolerable, and must be corrected. As all the Thousand Suns and their people must work in harmony, so too must the Sunburst Guitars work flawlessly for the High President’s Delight.
Sunburst Guitar Instrumentalist 316 Ken Oshiro kept his attention on his instrument, his eyes only on his own work. Maybe no one would notice the mistake he had made. He carefully finished the piece, making sure to hit every note, and then, still in unison with the other nine hundred and ninety nine musicians, placed his guitar on the ground, it’s neck pointing directly to the President’s throne, it’s strap pulled taught to form a tight triangle beside it, and prostrated himself before the beneficence of the High President. His face to the dirt, Ken shut his eyes tightly and broke into a cold sweat. Maybe no one would notice him. A small insect crawled beside his cheek. After the allotted time had passed and the President left the stands and flew into the dusty sky, suspended in his sleep capsule by his fleet of golden helicopters, the musicians stood slowly, mirthlessly, still moving together, and began to leave the parade ground.
Themocracy
So what happened to the innocent number 317?
317 was considered a mistake and transfered to an algae farm on New Pluto. By night he edits a small press magazine on a computer he built from Monsanto(TM) Brand Bamboo.
As a reward for service, he recieved a ticket to view a performance by the Thousand Sunburst Guitars, if only he could afford the flight back to earth.