1984-Short Story
A shrill trumpet call had pierced the air. It was the bulletin. Victory. It always meant victory when a trumpet call preceded the news. He could hear just enough of what was issuing from the telescreen to realize that it had happened as he had foreseen. A vast seaborne armada secretly assembled. A sudden blow in the enemy’s rear. The white arrow tearing across the tail of the black. Under the table Winston’s feet made convulsive movements. He had not stirred from his seat, but in his mind he was running, swiftly running. He looked up again at the portrait of Big Brother. The colossus that bestrode the world. The rock against which the hordes of Asia dashed themselves in vain. Much had changed in him since that first day in the Ministry of Love,