The TV Producer

23 June 2005

The soldiers are coming. My instructions were to burn the tapes we played as soon as they were "done". Working with the most famous man in the world was most unpleasant. He lites his cigar and breaths down your neck, get this right, don't get this wrong. Our makeup team had to follow orders like "age me a little for this one" and the subtle change in military uniform ensured that our most gracious leader was "alive" to the world long after he had lost his life on the first day of the war. Worse than Hollywood! We kept him alive for all the world to see, keep the Americans fighting for a full sixteen months after the Leader's death. Hah. What genius! The popularity of the western leaders has fallen, while Saddam is considered immortal, unshakable, and resolute. Rumsfeld shows his dismay on CNN, "we have bombed Bagdhad to ruins, and still, Saddam broadcasts, its as if the death of the majority of his people is of no concern. What a butcher!"

As unpleasant as it was working with Saddam, somehow working with Rumsfeld must have been worse for my compatriats at CNN. 2000 tapes were made, Saddam spent more time in our studios than he did at the war council. In fact he had very little to do with the war planning, happy to leave this to his sons. "That rat Uday will enjoy killing Americans" he said, and we filmed him heading up the miliatary campaign table. As soon as the filming was over, we would return to the studio, with Saddam, to make more "broadcasts".

Yes, the TV station was obliterated in the first week of the war. Our task was to narrow cast our transmission to all the world's media, selling our exclusive footage of the Iraq leader at this finest. The 2000 tapes told a story about the war, how Americans were cowards, and did no good for his great country.

But now the soldiers are coming. I hesistate, they will not find Saddam in this deep bunker that evaded their bombs, they will find how Saddam's final act was to dupe them into destroying Iraq. He succeeded.

But let them all know? It seemed better to me to wipe the tapes and led the Saddam myth remain intact.

The Soldier

We know a soldier, one of the first ones that came with the nights of fire and rain that followed. We know him well, he is not such a bad person. A bomb went off and took away part of his ear, he can not hear on this side, this side is completely deaf. The man, this soldier, for he is a man, but one that dreams alot. He is not married and he holds a gun, we carry the foods back in the bags and they watch, their weapons hanging in a relaxed kind of gait. A friendly gesture. But that I should show my graces to these man that took the lives of so many fathers. Mine was there.

That I should lie here in the warehouse, far from windows or explosion in stone or brick. Far from glass. Lie still or their flying robot drones will detect my body. I lie here and hook into the neural net where we plan, all sixteen of us that attend the 4th class in Room 208 on Tuesday. The soldier will walk past the alley at 15:38 as he does in his routine, the ricene dart has been ordered for his neck.

The group nominated three to carry out the task. A vote was held and my friend was chosen as leader. I was his second and had to kill the third if he failed to carry out the leaders instructions. I am the enforcer and I am prepared to do my duty so that one day we get back our land. My father said I should die like a man. I hope to have taken another 20 americans with me before I turn 12.

Fiction - Death in the City

The missiles outside hit the building and glass went everywhere. The time is at hand. The clock struck two and then it was it by a flying deluge of steel glass and brick. This could be New York. This could be Bagdhad. It makes no difference, the terror is the same. Localised explosions, fire and death. It's "over there" a few blocks away so life will go on here as normal. The building collapses and hundreds must be dying each second that passes. The clock is broke so you can't hear it tick.

There is dust on all the cars outside, and the air stinks of something vile. The lunch lies half eaten in disbelief on my plate as a shock wave shatters all the windows. I fled to the street. My wife is in the car, it is on fire. Her clothes are burning from her back and the children in the back of the car have stopped struggling. The heat overcame them from the explosion of the petrol tank. Now the car is hit by a missle.

Run down the street, away from the dust but there is no sound. A rush of wind one way and then back the other. Which way is safe? Explosions in both direction, falling bricks and sky. Smoke and dust crowd in the streets and all definition is lost. This is no longer a city, but a silent dream and I hover over my feet no longer touching the ground I look down at my body as it breaks open...

Fictional account by Nicholas Alexander