DEFENDING THE PEN It’s all about murder . . . romance – writing it! I post flash fiction, book announcements, interviews, and the things I love. Careful . . . you may end up the victim . . . of fun!
Photo by Konstantin
Dyadyun on Unsplash
“October, baptize
me with leaves! Swaddle me in corduroy and nurse me with split pea soup… O
autumn! O teakettle! O grace!”
– Rainbow Rowell
“October is crisp
days and cool nights, a time to curl up around the dancing flames and sink into
a good book.”
– John Sinor
“October is the
opal month of the year. It is the month of glory, of ripeness.”
– Henry Ward Beecher
October
is my favorite month.
And
my Halloween Celebration begins tomorrow.
Exactly
one year after the 2026 election, the knock at the door came at noon. We still
weren’t ready, but the two men with AK-47s who came to escort us to the waiting
bus didn’t care.
“Weapons?” he asked.
“No, sir, we don’t own any.” And we didn’t. In our younger years, we’d each owned guns. We even enjoyed shooting them, but when the babies arrived, we sold them to keep the house safe. We’d never bothered to replace them.
The man grunted. “Figures. Stupid liberals,” he said, smiling. Nodding to his buddy, he shoved my husband forward. “Should’ve kept your Republican registration; you might have had a chance.” He let me pass with only a sneer, mumbling, “Independent, slut!”
We were being moved to new quarters—a camp for the elderly, they said—a place where we’d be taken care of. Medicare and Social Security had been abolished, and those of us who relied on them had to sell off our assets and agree to move to the ‘camps’ for continued care. The bus was full of folks in the same position, and then I saw the young mother and her child sitting in the back seat. We took the seat in front of them.
“What are you doing here, dear?”
“I need care for my child,” she whispered. Without government assistance, I can’t meet her special needs. I was told I could go to the camp and work there to get the care we both need.”
“I see.” I gazed at my husband. He shrugged, already resigned to what was to come.
“I’m glad you’ll be with us. It'll be nice to have some young people running around," I said, trying to stay optimistic.
“Thank you,” she said. “Anny’s already missing her granny.”
“Did she go somewhere else?”
“Oh no,” the young woman said. She was killed during the takeover. When the Patriots came to claim our city, she and Grandpa were on the front lines holding a protest sign. They were shot.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
She gave a weak smile. “It’s all right. They knew what would happen. I think they welcomed death. Ever since the election, with all the changes brought by a corrupt administration, the unrest due to ICE, and the violence by the militia. Neither of them wanted to live to see their free America destroyed completely. I would have gone with them, but I couldn’t do that to my sweet Anny. She needs me.”
I nodded and turned in my seat. Tears filled my eyes. I had wanted to do the same thing, but my husband said it couldn’t get any worse and told me to be patient. He was wrong.
We saw it coming. The madman in the White House calling all the shots. Illegal, outrageous, unconstitutional, yet everyone let him do his thing. Sure, they tried impeachment. Ha, what a joke. His own party excused every one of his moves. After all, they were in power, and power is everything when your only goal is to increase the bottom line. Screw the people!
Most of my family voted him into office, then put him back in, no matter what laws he broke. Even those he wanted to destroy voted for him. It boggles the mind. It scars the soul. Now the old, the disabled, and anyone else who doesn’t bow and swear allegiance or doesn’t fit the mold are being forced to move into ‘camps’ for their own good.
I can't help but wonder—do these camps have ovens or gas chambers, or are we to be poisoned at dinner?
Photo by Angelo
Pantazis on Unsplash
“Smell
the sea, and feel the sky. Let your soul and spirit fly.”
