Ahmed Khalifa - Imagining Liberty - Volume 1

This anthology is the result of a short story contest run as a collaboration between the Libertarian Fiction Authors association (LFA) and Students for Liberty (SFL). It couldn’t have happened without the hard work of our fellow editors, the generous donations of LFA members for prize money, and the promotion and organizational help of SFL. Additionally, a wide variety of other people and organizations helped promote the contest and bring in some great entries. From Jeffrey Tucker, to Freedomworks, to AFF, and Robert Murphy, we were fortunate in all the enthusiastic support and assistance we received.

The contest was conceived as an experiment in unapologetically libertarian fiction and was also run in as libertarian a way as possible (prize money was even paid out in Litecoin, in one instance). We hoped that such a contest would attract high-quality writers, with powerful stories to share, that also carried a strong explicit or implicit libertarian message.

In this it was an unqualified success.

The following prompt inspired over 169 authors to submit stories ranging across genre, style, and voice:

“Write a short story that illustrates the positive role of freedom in human life. Whether it’s a galaxy-spanning space epic or an introspective contemporary character piece, we want to see stories that paint the benefits and possibilities of human freedom in sharply compelling brush-strokes.”

From epistolary shorts made up of fictional news pieces, to tales of rebellion on distant planets, submissions were marvelously varied. In fact, the only thing they really held in common was a love of, and even yearning for, political liberty (and a high standard of writing quality).

What you’ll find in this collection are the ten winners (first, second, and third place, and the seven runners up) that managed to deftly combine the universal value of freedom with just plain good storytelling.

We hope you enjoy reading them as much as we did editing and selecting them.

Our first place winner, this is a powerful, subtle story set in modern-day Egypt during the turmoil in Tahrir square.

June. The sultriest of months, when tempers flare and the nights burn as hot as the daytime. I found myself, for the first time in four years, descending the familiar hewn stone steps and making my way to the shaded dock below. The houseboat was moored, as it always had been, by the faded antique parking meter almost obscured by a hedge of lavender and mint. I could not see the balcony behind, but I hazarded that it was firmly shut to the murky splendor of the Nile waters. They had always been Philistines in that regard.

Amm Attia, the slight porter with skin like cured leather, had not moved in four years. He sat, as he had always done, in his wicker chair, rolling cigarettes by the light of a kerosene lamp that was the oldest object in the neighborhood. He arose when he glimpsed me, his eyes cloudy with cataracts.

“Who goes? This is a private place.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle, and the man’s weathered hand gripped the thick stick by his side. He rose and repeated his challenge, the tobacco in his lap scattering in the light breeze.

“And what have the times come to,” I replied. “When a son of the neighborhood is treated like some street thug?”

His body may have withered, but his mind was sharp as a dagger. My voice registered even as the stick clattered to the ground.

“Mr. Ramy?” he said, tottering forward. “It can’t be! Mr. Ramy? Or… or is it Avvocato Ramy now?”

I moved forward to embrace him. His head rested against my chest and his crisp white gallabeya fluttered around my shins.

“A full Avvocato now, ready to take your money and run,” I joked. “It is good to see you again, old friend.”

Amm Attia stepped back and his eyes travelled up and down. “You’ve grown, Ramy. You look older.”

“The things you see in service of the law, Amm Attia, they grey your hair.”

His laugh was hearty and punctuated with the cough of a smoker whose tobacco was cut with too much of the black stuff. “They’re all inside, your degenerate scum friends,” he said, waving in the direction of the houseboat. It moved on a bed of molasses, tiny tremors rising and falling in the black of the Nile. “Do they know you’re here?”

I shook my head and stepped onto the gangplank. It felt like an old friend, and familiar steps took me towards the inviting wooden door. I rapped twice and it swung open to the sun.

The sun clapped both hands to her mouth at the sight of me. Her wisps of flame had grown into thick tendrils that crept around her shoulders and down her back. The sun’s face, a smooth oval as pale as its fire was hot. Twin jewels sparkled in greeting; to call them emeralds would be to insult their luster. The sun dazed me and its silence told me I had dazed it.

“Sabah, who is at the door?” a man yelled from within. The sun moved aside in silence, and I stepped into the dingy room.

The seconds stretched on. There were three men arranged in a semicircle on the floor around a tall brass shisha , the hose caught mid-pass. Each of them was firmly planted on his own threadbare cushion. I knew them well.

Youssef was the first to break the peace. He pushed himself to his feet with vigor and almost knocked the apparatus to the floor in his haste. His skinny arms enfolded me and his smoke-soured breath washed over me. It tasted like home. “Ramy, you beautiful bastard. Ramy, Ramy, Ramy!”

The other two men stood up. Omar, brawny as an ox, lifted me bodily off my feet. Ismail contented himself with a solid handshake. He had grown a thick bristly beard in my absence. It stretched up to his cheekbones and his eyes looked sunken in contrast.

Youssef fetched him a pillow and tossed it by his own. “Sit, sit. We have much to discuss, Ibn Battuta.”

Omar interrupted him.

“First things first,” the bear said. “We cannot talk unless you are where we are.”

The phrase engendered confused grunts all around until Omar held up the shisha hose with a wry smile. I accepted it gratefully, a newborn babe at the teat.

The hash was heady and tasted like handfuls of dry earth. My head spun and I coughed for a long time. Youssef and Omar laughed, clutching their sides.

“Four years have made you as weak as a cat, my friend.”

The world laughed at me and the floorboards breathed. A beard frowned at me. Finally, I regained my bearings and inhaled deeply once again. This time, the smoke stayed in until I wanted it out.

Youssef clapped his hands together. “Where to begin? The drugs, the parties, the girls-”

“You know very well how things are in the United States,” I replied. “The hub of delicious sin. You first, all of you. Tell me about the summer; I expect to hear tales of gallant chivalry and the most heinous moral depravity. Tell me about the girls.”

Omar replied heartily enough, telling me about his new girlfriend, Nadine. She was, to hear him tell it, Helen reborn. Locks of spun gold, eyes like the richest moss, all the phrases the poets spurned for their meaninglessness. I could not help the trembling guffaws that escaped as he regaled us. He was affronted, mockingly so. I directed the question to Youssef and received a shy averted gaze for my troubles. I poked at him again and he remained mute on the subject, muttering about a marked lack of ‘his type’.

“Enough of this useless talk of girls and iniquity,” Ibrahim scowled. He turned to where the sun was standing in the corner by the door. The sun, the radiant sun, had her eyes trained on my face and I felt my face redden. “Sabah. Fetch us some tea, girl.”