Kirsti Wishart’s stories can be found in The Seven Wonders of Scotland anthology, New Writing Scotland, 404 Ink, The Evergreen and a quiet grove in Edinburgh’s Botanic Gardens (courtesy of the Echoes of the City project). She was awarded a Hawthornden Fellowship in 2013 and in 2018 was a finalist in the Scottish Arts Club Short Story Awards.
Vapour Trails
The global shut-down of social media channels led to different modes of communication being developed. For those members of radical or subversive groups, older codes were researched and given life again. In coffee houses and bars, fans made a reappearance; the number of folds exposed, taps to the cheek and chin, the rhythm of waving all resulting in meetings being arranged, warnings being issued. Handkerchief sellers experienced a surprise uptake in trade. Suit jackets disappeared from charity shop racks as the angles of triangles and the colours displayed in top pockets became significant, telling others which particular offshoot of the anarchist, techno-luddite, post-modernist terrorist group you were a member of. Florists began to receive orders for unusually archaic arrangements of heather and lilies, bouquets not seen since Victorian times but tweaked to convey slogans later unleashed by
graffiti artists on the streets. Origami night classes sold out. Letters written under the wings of a swan could be rearranged when the paper was folded into the shape of a flamingo, revealing the name of the latest politician who should be targeted in a silent watch campaign. MPs would open their windows to discover a silent crowd staring, unnervingly united in their muteness. Retired naval commanders found themselves being asked about Morse code
sequences during previously lonely nights in the corners of pubs.
The authorities cracked down, raised the prices of coloured card, banned the sale of multi-coloured torches that made excellent signalling devices. Milliners were monitored for the feathers or tartans that decorated hat bands, revealing those whose protected heads carried subversive thoughts. Baristas learned to spot the darkened bags under the eyes of officials in disguise and modified the swirls of espresso decorating the surface of a latte accordingly; a nervous shake of the wrist made sure the latest gathering place for a conscience-raising event wasn’t revealed accidentally in the fronds of a foaming fern.
The restrictions increased to nearly all forms of extraneous decoration, anything that wasn’t purely utilitarian disappearing; window boxes, candles left lit on windowsills, the way blinds were left three-quarters open, all became sources of suspicion. The Secret Opposition found it increasingly challenging to connect; cells became isolated. The authorities claimed victory in newspapers that were laminated, making them difficult to cut and fold into messages contradicting their contents.
Such constraints only increased anger, however, which fuelled new levels of ingenuity. Had they been paying attention, officials may have noticed how busy newly-opened vaping shops had become. They might have monitored more closely the after-hours tutorials given on the modification of devices and breathing methods developed so that beautifully elaborate plumes could be produced: curlicues, cloudy ribbons and tendrils in which hidden letters would drift. Dyes could be added to produce rainbows that vanished as soon as they spread, colours matching the walls behind which covert gatherings would take place.
And adding to the messages were the scents produced; pomegranate, watermelon, candyfloss and gin and tonic being puffed out to arrange a rendezvous, a demonstration, a newsletter, a riot. The clouds continued to form, adding a concealing layer of smog to the city until one evening the square before City Hall filled and filled and filled with people breathing like dragons, becoming ghostly in their self-created fog.The authorities trembled behind closed doors.
But those locks, the hastily arranged draft-excluders—they can’t hold, can’t stop the reek of gunpowder, blood and flares seeping through the ventilation shafts, turning their vision misty as though cataracts are forming. Smoke blurs the portraits of their glorious leader, the bitter tang of freedom tickles their lungs, catches their throat, voices choked by coughs that leave the taste of burnt flesh.
You can reach Kirsti and keep up to speed on her writing via Twitter.