Hey everyone,
Germany has several important state elections coming up in September, and the results could shape the country’s political direction for years to come. Then, in November, the US midterms will likely have consequences far beyond the US.
Don’t worry—I’m not about to turn this newsletter into political commentary. There are enough pundits out there already, many of them with a level of sophistication and political insight I envy ;)
But with elections in the air, this felt like the right moment to revisit a speculative fictionshort story I first published in 2024. I’ve given it a fresh polish since then.
I hope you enjoy Stage Whisper.
Stage Whisper
Hope With A Hidden Author
A Short Story
—
I was staring at my university diploma hanging above the TV, keeping an eye on the countdown against the backdrop of our nation’s flag.
5:11. 5:10. 5:09.
This was the moment to finally put an end to my parents’ constant nagging about my fledgling career; the time to finally achieve my dream of working for the country’s premier newspaper, instead of scraping by on meager payouts from my local press job and my struggling newsletter, whose nine subscribers hadn’t heard from me in months.
4:13.
I took a sip from my freshly brewed coffee, carefully avoiding the chipped corner of my favorite mug. As the coffee’s warmth filled me with a sense of comfort and relaxation, Paula eased open the living-room door and leaned heavily against the frame. Even at 6 p.m., she was still dressed in her beloved teddy-bear pajamas that I had promised to keep our lifelong secret. She lingered for a moment, her tousled hair falling in loose waves around her face, then shuffled over and sat down on the couch’s armrest.
“What are you up to?”
A glance at the countdown: 3:34. I had to keep this brief.
“I’m watching a livestream of that teenage candidate’s rally,” I said, not taking my eyes off the screen.
“A teenage candidate? Who?”
I patted the cushion. “Why don’t you grab some coffee from the kitchen and watch with me?”
2:11.
Paula shrugged. “You want me to wake up with an election rally?”
To my surprise, she seemed to be genuinely considering the idea. All she needed was a final nudge.
“Yes. This could be the election of the century. Hurry, it’s starting.”
On the screen, the countdown and flag dissolved into a red lectern against black curtains.
Paula returned and sank into the couch beside me, the steam from her coffee braiding into the room’s dim light.
“This better be worth it, Mike.”
“Can’t promise. It’s my first rally, too. But there’s been a lot of buzz about this girl on Reddit. Multiple subreddits dedicated to her.”
“A teenager running for president? How is that even possible?”
“Remember when, early in his second term, the president scrapped the age requirement for presidential candidates, claiming to democratize the race?”
“Of course.”
She was lying; Paula never paid attention to current events. Her blissful ignorance, especially in her thirties, baffled me. She floated through life like a leaf carried by the wind, while I was on a constant chase for the next headline.
“Everybody assumed he did it for his daughter, but nobody expected a random small-town girl to enter the race.”
“Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“I thought so, too. But somehow this girl is getting attention. My journalistic sixth sense tells me there’s a major story here—one that could finally put me on the map for The National Times.”
Paula rolled her eyes. Before I could add more, a male voice came through the speakers.
“Hello, beautiful souls, and a heartfelt thank you for bringing your light to this gathering. From every corner of our nation, and all walks of life, you’ve chosen to be here with us to share a moment of hope and vision for a brighter tomorrow with Joan. Your time is precious, and the fact that you’re spending a slice of it here, with us, fills our hearts with gratitude.
“Today, Joan will share the three pillars at the core of her journey towards change — pillars she dreams of upholding as president. For those who’ve been with us before, who’ve lent us your ears and hearts, if you feel like sipping your favorite drink before diving back in for the Q&A, we invite you to do so. Remember, this space thrives on your energy, your passion, and your commitment to not just dream of a better future, but to shape it alongside Joan.”
That voice. I felt as if somebody had wrapped their arms around me to comfort me and told me how amazing I was. My heart rate slowed, my breathing eased, even my muscles relaxed. From the corner of my eye, I could see Paula softening in the same way. What a gifted speaker. Maybe he was the secret to Joan Johnson’s sudden rise. I started scribbling notes.
“Now, let’s get this rally started properly. Please rise from the comfort of your seats and give it up for the wonderful, kind, and inspirational Joan Johnson.”
I don’t know why we did it, but Paula and I stood up simultaneously in our living room and applauded as the young woman I’d read so much about strode onstage. Johnson was wearing a forest-green suit and white sneakers. As she settled at the lectern, the camera zoomed in on her. No jewelry. A whisper of makeup. Green eyes focused intensely on us. Her dark hair tied back in a simple ponytail. When she smiled into the camera, it was unlike any candidate’s smile I’d seen: genuine and full of optimism. Everything about her radiated authenticity and sincerity, giving me no reason to question a hidden, selfish motive for becoming president. My pulse quickened. This young woman had the potential to bring real change to our country.
To my left, Paula had leaned forward, her gaze fixated on the screen with wide eyes, no signs of the earlier fatigue left in her. A woman who loved being oblivious to the world was engaged in a way that normally only her favorite fantasy books achieved.
“Hi everyone! Wow, I’m just blown away by seeing so many of you joining us today—people from every state, every class, every race, every party, united by hope and a shared dream. You, people coming together from all walks of life, are the reason I decided to run for president in the first place. This country is a patient barely surviving, when we all know it could be thriving beyond our wildest dreams. We’re like a hidden gem, waiting to shine brighter than we ever imagined. But only together, by channeling our collective energy toward progress and embracing our differences, can we turn that potential into reality.”
Paula was nodding wildly next to me, and I realized the quiet “yeah…yeah” I heard was coming from my own mouth. Johnson had barely said anything, yet I already felt on her side. Her words resonated deeply, igniting a familiar longing to stand with others and be a force for good.
“I truly believe it’s time for a fresh start. Our past and present leaders have been trapped in patterns that bring out the worst in us, viewing the citizens like greedy, selfish sheep to be controlled. They view life as an endless zero-sum game that only the strongest nation can win. That toxic worldview has brought us to the deep misery we find ourselves in.” She paused, scanning left to right as if we were there in person. “But here’s what I see: a chance for renewal, a moment ripe for change. I’m not shaped by those old battles; I’m driven by a vision of unity and joy. I’m ready to journey with you toward a future where everyone wins, a future filled with happiness and progress.”
Her smile never faded; her voice stayed gentle even as she delivered these harsh truths. Any defense reflex I might normally have had dissolved under that angelic tone and youthful clarity.
“I’m not as naive as to believe we can achieve that future with willpower alone. It requires strong principles, impactful policy, and a decisive team. Today, I want to share the core principles that will not just carry us to victory in this election, but also shape our journey forward as we lead with heart and purpose. It’s about laying the foundation for a way of governing that’s as successful and inclusive as it is visionary. Are you ready for them?”
I jerked my head to the right and squeezed my eyes together in pain. Paula’s shouted “YES!” was still ringing in my left ear. I gave her a look.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “I’m getting excited.”
Paula excited by a politician? I definitely was onto something.
As Johnson laid out her principles, I struggled to maintain my journalistic objectivity. She kept drawing me in with her words, evoking a sense of belonging I wasn’t familiar with. In all honesty, people could say many things about me, but “eager follower” wasn’t one of them. From a young age, I had always been fiercely independent, and it was that independence that had driven me into journalism; it was the perfect fit for my self-image as a critical thinker.
Yet something about Johnson made objective distance hard. I decided it was best to just take thorough notes and review them later when I was in a more sober state of mind.
—
The queue inched towards entrance F, the massive stadium towering above us. It was one of the biggest in the country, seating over 150,000. In the past three months, Johnson had come a long way from that first online rally I had joined with its few hundred viewers.
Documenting her meteoric rise to the top of the polls was the most exhilarating journalistic endeavor of my life. Also, the most rewarding. My articles were now featured in the country’s most renowned publications, including The National Times. As a leading reporter on her campaign, I barely had time for anything else. But that was fine. A teenager on the brink of becoming president in one of the most powerful countries in the world — that was fairy tale material. And I was at the front, recording history as it unfolded.
I cleared security and drifted toward my seat in the stadium, studying the crowd. It was Johnson’s first in-person rally, and tickets had sold out within hours. Thankfully, Paula had reserved a ticket for me before they even went on sale. That twist—Paula caring about the world, becoming a volunteer, and pouring her time into the campaign—remained one of the year’s biggest surprises … and a useful one for my reporting.
Almost everyone around me had honored Johnson’s request to wear our national colors: black, white, forest-green, and ruby-red. If it were any other candidate, people would have called this a nationalistic rally. But with Johnson, this was just seen as one of her ways to unite people around something bigger. Her outward youthfulness and naivety had washed the darker stains from the nationalist umbrella and turned it into a tool for saving the country.
Near the VIP section, I spotted Paula directing a group of eager attendees. She glowed—radiant smile, sparkling eyes, entirely in her element. Who’d have guessed that a single online rally would change both of our lives that drastically? From one day to the other, she’d even started rising before me, leaving a mug of freshly brewed coffee on the counter for me. In the midst of the crowd, Paula caught my eye and winked. I grinned and headed to the VIP entrance for my seat.
Goosebumps prickled my arms the moment I stepped into the bowl. Most seats were already filled, and a sea of black, white, red, and green chanted “Joan! Joan!” The stadium walls showed forests and mountains against a blue sky, giving me the feeling of being in a vast open-air arena in the middle of nowhere. A shiver ran through me; I couldn’t remember ever feeling so in awe, so connected with my fellow peers.
As I settled into my seat, I tried to regain my objectivity and reminded myself that crowds do this to people. It’s why they love concerts and sports. Spending most of my time behind a screen, I just wasn’t used to it.
To situate myself, I scanned the stadium. At its center stood a round, red stage and the familiar lectern from the online rallies, with a white carpet leading to it. The rest of the floor remained empty—unusual for a campaign event, especially for someone running a “With-the-People” platform. Intentional? Or just an oversight by an inexperienced candidate? It seemed unlikely.
Before I could give it more thought, a familiar, comforting voice filled the stadium.
“Hello, beautiful souls, and a heartfelt thank you for bringing your light to our first in-person gathering. From every corner of our nation, and all walks of life, you’ve chosen to be here to share another moment of hope. Joan couldn’t be more excited to see you here, united around one goal: to heal our division and move our country toward a brighter future. Now, let’s get this rally started properly. Please rise from your seats and give it up for the wonderful, kind, and inspirational Joan Johnson.”
As I rose from my seat with 150,000 others, clapping as if it were the last thing I would do in this life, I had a flashback to that first online rally. It was almost eerie how consistent Johnson had been throughout her entire campaign. No wonder there were countless conspiracy theories on the web about who was behind her. They named all the usual suspects and were further fueled by the other two candidates who had homed in on any angle that could discredit Johnson due to her youth. So far, she had not only anticipated every attack, but, like a martial-arts fighter, had used them for momentum against her opponents. One of my freelancers was investigating her intellect. Our hypothesis was that her IQ might be near 200, given her ability to steer such a complex campaign machinery at her age.
When Johnson approached the stage, I slipped in my earbuds that flattened her voice to a neutral, factual tone. It was a trick I had developed to be less affected by her and keep my distance. I positioned my tablet on my knee and started typing.
Johnson hit all her usual points: her three principles, seven key policies, the core team she’d appoint. Again and again, she returned to uniting the country, and, with the same uncanny ability I had observed dozens of times before, merged seemingly contradictory views into a coherent approach. My brain, like those of many other observers, had struggled to explain how she did it. Researchers had tried to unpack it on TV, but I never understood it. I decided to ignore exploring it in my reporting, and settled for superficially describing her incredible ability to braid opposing views into something that felt right to everyone in the room. After all, it was this ability above all else that had turned voters across the entire political spectrum into diehard Johnson fans. The famous “Johnson Effect”. Around me, people hung on every word, not even taking a sip or a bite from their drinks and snacks. People were thirsty and hungry for what she had to say, starved of genuine connection after decades of a growing partisan chasm splitting the country in half.
After an hour, Johnson ceded the stage to her team. It was the first time I had heard them speak. They felt like older versions of her—more seasoned, less buoyant, but sharing the same kind, caring tone and preference for “we” and “us” over “I” and “them”. It was an impressive show of a cohesive team led by a teenager with a pure heart intent on knitting a country back together.
When the third of the six began, I slipped out of the VIP section. I had come here with a mission, and it wasn’t going to be accomplished from a seat. I needed to get backstage with the staff badge Paula had lent me. Convincing her hadn’t been easy. Only after I had laid out in depth how my reporting would help Johnson win had she relented.
A security guard fixed me with a hard look as I approached the backstage entrance. I kept my pace, flashed the badge, and stepped past.
“Wait.”
I pivoted, feigning surprise.
“Me.”
“Yes, you. I haven’t seen you entering here before.”
“I’ve been working the crowds entering the stadium all day. Just wrapped up. Headed to my team lead for our debrief.”
His gaze sharpened. My pulse hammered in my ears, but I kept my face calm.
“The rally isn’t over.”
“I’m aware. Our team debriefs ahead of the larger crew.”
He squinted. “You look jittery.”
“Of course. This is a big day. If this goes well, we are on track to win the election.”
Even though I wasn’t part of the staff, I had enough insider knowledge to bluff my way past security.
“May I?” I injected a note of irritation, aiming for the perfect blend of indignation and haste.
He hesitated. I edged forward, bracing for a hand on my shoulder, but he relaxed slightly and gestured for me to pass.
“Sure.”
His stare burned my back until I turned right at the first intersection, disappearing into the backstage maze.
The area was completely deserted. Fuck. I’d hoped to ask someone for Johnson’s whereabouts, move in quickly, ask my questions, and be out again. This was supposed to be a crucial piece for my next front-page article, but I didn’t have time to check every door. I’d have to try again at the next rally—and come better prepared.
I was about to leave when I heard Johnson’s voice coming from a room on the right. I tiptoed toward the open door, catching fragments. There was a second, familiar voice in the room. Mentally patting myself on the back, I realized it was the man who always delivered the rally openings, a figure nobody had ever captured on camera. If I could snap a photo of him, the elusive mastermind in so many conspiracy theories, I’d have a cover story on my hands. Slowly, I slid my hand into my front pocket and switched on my new Teenage Engineering recorder—a pricey investment but worth every penny for crystal-clear audio at fifteen meters.
“...early stats look good…might have to replace Josh…weak spot in your team…”
“...like Josh…nobody more purpose-driven.”
“I know. But there’s no place for emotions here. To unite the nation, you need the best team.”
“You said my biggest strength is my passion, my youthful energy to bring about a better world. Sometimes it feels like you bring in the same rationality as the people we want to replace.”
My fingers curled around the doorframe as I flattened myself to the wall. I eased the slim periscope camera out of my left pocket, ready to snake it past the jamb for a visual recording of the conversation. The man’s voice softened as he continued talking to Johnson, and my shoulders loosened as it had its usual effect on me.
“I won’t, Joan. Never would I have convinced you to do this if I had believed an old-guard politician could bring the same change. This country—the world—is doomed if people cannot overcome their differences. My circuits have run every possible scenario, and the one with by far the highest probability of success is a teenage girl with your nature and background becoming president.”
Circuits? What a geek. Just say brain.
“Why can’t you run for president yourself? You are anyway the one teaching me how to speak, how to behave, and even giving me the exact words I should say.”
Jackpot. That was juicy. Every paper would kill for my story. All I needed now was a picture. I eased the camera around the doorframe and checked the tiny screen in my hand—then nearly gasped. Johnson stood alone in the center of the room, facing a dark-blue sphere projected into the air, her hands caressing the pendant on her necklace. The soft voice seemed to be coming from that little marvel of technology.
Damn it. No man. No face for the front page. He had to be somewhere far away, eager not to be seen in public, smart enough to not even show himself on video calls. My heart raced with excitement and fear. This felt like a scene straight out of a Hollywood movie, but it was real. I couldn’t help but wonder what other theories might be true.
“The country is not ready for something like me to run for president. Won’t be for decades. A teenage girl, in a country that has elected neither a woman nor anyone under forty-five, is as far as I can stretch things.”
Something. That odd choice of words again. As the man spoke, the sphere pulsated in perfect alignment with his words and tone. I realized that, although I had always labeled it as male, the speaker’s voice was actually so neutral that it could be attributed to any sex. What a brilliant choice when your aim is to unite everyone.
“Can’t you just build a robot that looks fully human?”
“Not yet. People would sense the difference. For our plan to work, we need you with all your youth, naivety, kindness, and endless optimism to lead us. I’ll be your serving mastermind in the background.”
“But this is so exhausting. I’m not ready.”
The sphere started swelling to twice its size. I wasn’t sure if it was intended as a sign of threat or comfort. When it spoke again, a rush of confidence surged through me.
“You are. And I’m always by your side—onstage and online. In any physical and virtual space where Joan Johnson is present, I’ll be there to guide and influence the conversation. Trust me: nobody knows better than me what people need to hear, the exact words that will bring them together. As long as you say the things I tell you, you’ll do beautifully.”
“What if this pendant breaks?”
“That’s why we have the backups. Worst case, text me on your phone. I’ll find you wherever you reach out.” The voice paused as the sphere shrank back to its previous size. “Joan, I chose you for a reason. You are the only one who can win this election and bridge the chasm in this country.”
Silence. Johnson was processing what the man had said. Or whatever he was.
My eyes wide open, I tried to make sense of what I had just heard. Could it be…? No. That was science fiction. My imagination was taking over. I had spent too much time reading conspiracy theories. As my mind was racing to connect all the dots in my brain, I glanced at the screen in my hands, where Johnson’s usual smile hardened into stern determination.
“Fine. I’ll be your human face to reunite the country.”
“More than just the face, Joan. My processing power is nothing without your human spark.”
Her jaw softened, and she even blushed a bit, unable to resist the voice’s affection.
“Now, it’s time to dress up, head back up for your final words, and get that crowd hyped to the max.”
“Okay. To the max it is.”
I drew my camera back, turned to leave, and bumped straight into a broad chest. When I looked up, I stared straight into the security guard’s furious eyes. Before I could speak, I felt a sudden, sharp pain in my left side, like a horde of wasps all stinging the same spot at once, and everything went dark.
—
My head throbbed. Every fiber of my body was in pain. I felt sorer than I did after even the toughest workout.
I opened my eyes to orient myself. Below me was concrete. A sidewalk. In front of me the brick wall of a building. I turned to my right, realizing I was leaning against an identical wall of another building. Paula’s voice came from behind me.
“About time you woke up.”
She sounded contained, as if leashing herself. How did we get here?
Memory dripped back: Joan Johnson. The mysterious voice. The guard’s chest.
“They took all your gadgets. Wiped your cloud. Fired your freelancers. You may keep reporting great things about Joan Johnson, but if you even draft a single line about what you saw today, they’ll make sure you never publish anything again.”
I twisted painfully to face Paula. I was used to her glares when I left the flat a mess, but this one was different—fiercer, scarier. What had happened to her?
“Did they hurt you? Forced you to say this to me?”
“The only one who hurt me is you. You said you just wanted a glimpse of what it looks like behind the scenes, not to eavesdrop on Joan. Whatever you recorded in there, it would have damaged the entire campaign. The only real hope there is for this country.”
“That’s a bit overly dramatic, isn’t it? I’m sure you know that…”
“Shut up. I told you what you need to know. Not a word about today. To anyone. Or…”
She traced a line across her throat, turned and walked out of the alley.
My mind raced as I watched her go, every thought aligning and connecting like puzzle pieces falling into place. Suddenly, it was all clear—how Joan Johnson, a lone teenager, had managed to orchestrate such a powerful campaign; how she might win and heal a divided nation. But at what cost? Was I supposed to ignore the fact that an AI was pulling the strings? Was revealing the truth my golden act of journalism, or would silence be my solemn vow to a country clinging to a shard of hope?
The End
If Stage Whisper made you think of someone who might answer differently, send it their way. That’s exactly the kind of conversation I hoped the story might start.
And if this is your first time here, you’re very welcome to subscribe. I share short fiction, early chapters from my books, behind-the-scenes, and notes from the worlds in progress.
Lastly, I’d genuinely like to know where you land, too: would you publish the truth—or protect the hope?