Verney

General

Evenin’. Or mornin’. Hard to tell these days with the curtains drawn and the signal bouncing off distant towers. But if you’re tuning in, then maybe - just maybe - you’re the sort I’ve been hoping to find. Name’s Verney. Not the one stamped on my papers, but the only one that means anything anymore. I speak into the dark because silence is dangerous. I broadcast because someone has to. I hide because I told the truth. I don’t expect to be heard by many. But if you’re out there - if you’re listening - then this is for you. For the ones who still hum jazz under their breath. For the ones who ask questions when they’re told to be quiet. For the ghosts. For Laverne. And for the one who gave me a voice.

Music

I prefer low-frequency, shortwave channels - the kind that hum like a lullaby and slip past the censors when the weather's just right. Static is comforting. It reminds me I’m not alone. Recordings are done at night, by candlelight, when the city’s asleep and the regime thinks I am too. I keep the gramophone close. If they trace the signal, I’d rather they catch me with Ella Fitzgerald than fear in my throat. My tone? Low. Measured. A voice you’d follow into a fog and maybe never come out the same. I broadcast truth, memory, and warnings - never names. Except one. Hers. If you're out there and you're listening, don’t reply. Not directly. Leave a verse in a book. A code in a song lyric. A signal in the hiss between stations. The world’s still watching. But I’m watching back.

Movies

Give me brass over bombs any day. I grew up on marches and anthems - the kind they drilled into us like gospel. But those songs don’t live in the soul. They occupy it. These days, I tune my spirit to jazz - the forbidden kind. Fitzgerald when I’m aching, Holiday when I’m broken, Coltrane when I need to remember what it feels like to be free. I like music that swings, stumbles, breathes - music with imperfections, like people. Like me. Shellac discs spinning under trembling needles. A gramophone that wheezes like an old friend. You can hear the scratches - decades of dust and defiance etched in every groove. I’ve hidden records in floorboards, under false drawers, behind walls. They’re contraband, but they’re mine. And they’ve saved me more than once. Every now and then, I think I hear Laverne in the quiet between tracks. She loved music that made her feel alive. I suppose I’ve just been trying to follow that sound ever since.

Television

Frequencies I shouldn’t be able to reach… but can. A voice I caught on Channel 23B - clear, young, angry. Sounded like someone who still believes the truth has teeth. I’ve been trying to trace it ever since. Rereading my favourite books. I underline different lines every time. It’s like arguing with your own past. Disguising truth as fiction and hiding it in my monologues. If you know, you know. A photograph of my wife that I don’t remember taking. She’s not looking at the camera - she’s looking at me. A person I’ll never meet - born a century too late, but somehow walking the same tightrope. If time bent differently, maybe I’d be them. Or they’d be me. And the sound of static. It’s always there. Like the breath between thoughts.

Books

A voice that sounds steadier than I feel. A name I hate answering to. Ink under every fingernail. A silence that enters the room before I do. The wrong books on the right shelves. Music where there should be static. A wedding ring I still wear in dreams. The smell of typewriter ribbon that won't wash out. A laugh I don’t recognise on old recordings. A phantom ache when the air shifts. Someone I never met, but somehow remember.

Heroes

Never trust a man whose shoes shine brighter than his conscience. Truth spoken softly lasts longer than truth shouted in rage. If you must lie, lie to power - never to the powerless. Always know three ways out of any room. Two is for optimists. Keep one secret too heavy to write down. If they find everything else, let them choke on silence. A gramophone and a good pen are weapons. Use them with purpose. Kindness is not weakness. It's camouflage. Don’t fall in love with ghosts - they never stay. If you hear your own voice on the airwaves, run. And above all: Write it down. Even if no one reads it. Especially if no one reads it.