An Election's Carol II

"But wait!" Obama cried at the vanishing Foster. "How will I know who these spirits are?"

"You could just ask," said a bearded gentleman suddenly floating all spirity up in the President's bidness. He puffed a cloud of opium smoke into Obama's face.

"Who are you?" cried Obama.

"Do you not recognize me, Hussein?" asked Beardo McOpium.

"Of course I don't. Why would I-- wait! Yes! Charles Darwin?"

"Yes, it is--no, wait." The spirit frowned. "Why would you think I'm Darwin?"

"Well, there's the whole beard thing. And...I guess he makes sense because he killed God in the hearts and minds of the newly damned everywhere."

"He did, sure. But you should be able to identify me. Don't they teach anything anymore?"

"Not since Common Core, which I invented to replace education with tests."

"But you weren't taught under Common Core."

"Yeah, no. But during class I was always imagining I was off golfing instead of doing my job. And look at me now." Obama turned to face you, the reader of the story. "Follow your dreams, kids, and anything is possible."

"O...k," said the spirit.

"So, anyway, who are you, Mr. Undarwin?"

"I'm Karl Marx," remarked Karl Marx marxistly. "Mark me! I am the Ghost of Progressives Past. I have come to remind you of your duty to the gay islamist communist atheistic cult we all serve. Take a hit of this shit." He held the pipe out to Obama.

Obama took a hit of that shit.

"Woah," he said.

beat

"Was something supposed to happen?"

"Nah," said Marx. "But you just zoned for, like, an hour. If you go get Hillary elected, I'll give you some more next time I see you."

"Deal. See you in hell!"

"Praise Satan!" said Marx, evoking the progressive deity that they also denied the existence of.

Obama sat back and enjoyed the rest of the trip.

Jacques

Jacques Cousteau threw himself down to avoid the razor sharp razors held in the hand of the Chimanticore. He rolled further along the branch to avoid the blow that was surely to follow, but none came. Leaping to his feet, he turned and realized what a mistake he had made. The beast had fooled him. It had not disembowled Jacques while he was vulnerable--perhaps because it knew what doing so would have released--and instead had repositioned itself on his other side. Now Jacques was being forced back away from it towards the very trunk of Yggdrasil itself. At the rate he was moving, he had only moments to find an escape. All he had managed to salvage after the shipwreck in the City Thirteen Leagues Aloft was the Sacred Katana of the Highbladed Greatknives, the Spellbook of Unmaking, and his baseball card collection. If the Ghostqueen of the Hegemony of the Anarchons hadn't taken his mint condition T206 Honus Wagner, he could have perhaps yet bargained for his life. But so incomplete, his collection wouldn't even distract the Chimanticore for a second.

Jacque glanced around, hoping somewhere there was something he missed. Two thousand feet above the clouds, though, there was nothing of use on the massive ash tree. There were a few leaves, thankfully still hibernating since their last feast, a handful of Darkmoths, and-of course!

Jacques sprinted to the Defense Canon. He scrabbled through his beard to find a quarter and quickly inserted it, while the Chimanticore turned to leap away. Before it could get eleven feet, Jacques had the cannon powered and he fired a single wolfsbane laced quicksilver shot. The beast exploded in a cloud of butterflies, which as one gave a scream. Jacques trembled at the sound.

For this would wake the leaves.

Reflection at the Victory Column

God bless the artistic degenerates,
Whose work half forgotten remains.
And God bless the writers whose courage ran free
While they themselves languished in chains.

God bless all the leftists who rose up in arms
To cast down congealed kings on cold thrones.
And God bless the lovers of men like themselves
Now buried beneath stinging stone.

God bless the displaced in a land not their own
Whose lands drove them out by the sword.
And God bless the preachers who stood by the truth
Condemning themselves by the Word.

God bless all the willows that stood in the winds
While their rivers were poisoned and dried.
May God let us never forget how the strong
Were chopped down--in martyrdom died.

Delinquent

They tell us he's
"Delinquent."


He doesn't do
His homework.


He mocks
Teachers.



He smokes.

During class.


In
The classroom.



He has
Tattoos.


And swears at us.



They say we're
"Bad Parents."


We can't control
Our son.



But, I mean

God,
he's cool.

"My dear Mr. Bennet, have you heard that a rather pleasant site is let at last?"

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a high school student applying to college must be aware of her major and probable future career.

As a result, for longer than she can remember, the girl has been asked by numerous friends and even more numerous relatives what she wants to be when she grows up (or, later, the subject in which she will major in college).  From year to year, the answers vary widely – from a veterinarian (one trip to a local cow farm cured that) to the first female President.  But in the back of her mind, the idea of teaching always percolated.  It was her fallback answer, when she could not think of anything else to be.

It started when she was young, maybe six or seven, and she sat in the front of church for a children’s lesson.  The pastor was explaining to all of the children how everyone should use the gifts and abilities God gave them.  He gives some examples by telling a few children the talents they have, and how they might use them.  He looks at the girl and says, “You’re nice, and you like to help other people.  Maybe you could be a teacher.”  Her mother is a teacher, too, but this does not deter the girl – on the contrary, she likes the idea of being “just like Mommy.”

As she gets older, though, the idea fades and becomes less appealing.  She continues to change her mind almost as often as the weather in Wisconsin changes: first a private investigator, then a singer in a rock band, then a writer, then a missionary.  Still, though, she thinks about teaching.  As she gets to middle school and receives the reputation of “smart kid,” she starts helping her classmates with their homework during classes, study hall, or on the rare occasions when they even call her house.  She likes the feeling of being needed.

One specific instance stands out in her mind even years later.  A fellow eighth-grader and friend, Hailey, calls for math homework help.  When Hailey and the girl are about halfway through the problems, Hailey says, “I’m smarter than I thought I was!”

“Yeah, that’s what most people say when they ask for help.”

“Yeah,” Hailey concedes (with the advanced vocabulary all thirteen-year-olds seem to have), “but you explain things in a way people can get them.  You’re good at that.”

The girl positively glows for the rest of the evening.

Eighth grade and most of high school pass.  At this point, she is positive about her college major: Secondary Education with an English emphasis.  She will be a high school English teacher.  For Winterim during her senior year, she interns at her middle school alma mater.  She teaches fifth grade Spelling, eighth grade Literature (they read The Diary of Anne Frank), and helps her mother teach music to the fifth-through-eighth-graders. 

She teaches all kinds of literary devices to the eighth-graders: plot diagramming, static vs. dynamic characters, symbols, foreshadowing, etc.  Despite the fact that there are only five in the class (or maybe because of it), they all participate when she asks them to do so.  As she teaches, it feels as natural as breathing.  One day, they discuss point of view and character bias.  She asks them if they think Anne’s description of the events she records are accurate.  They look slightly confused, so she uses her favorite musical, Wicked, as an example.

“How many of you have heard of the musical Wicked?”  One or two raise their hands.  “Well, it’s the story of The Wizard of Oz, but told from the Wicked Witch of the West’s point of view.  It explains why she became so ‘wicked,’ all the characters’ backstories, and things like that.  Now, if you saw both musicals, whom do you think would have a more accurate picture of what happened in Oz?  Dorothy or the Witch?”

One boy, Ross, replies, “The Witch,” immediately.

But another boy, Luke, raises his hand and says, “Wait, wouldn’t it be… kinda both?”

The girl (almost a woman; her eighteenth birthday is less than two weeks away) hides her excitement and asks, “Why would it be both?”

“Well, they’re both… you know, different…” He struggles with the words, but the girl can see that he understands the concept.

“That’s exactly right,” she says with a smile, and goes on to explain that every character has some kind of bias about the events of a story.  This little memory sticks with her for the rest of the internship and afterward.  She truly feels like a teacher, called to instruct adolescents.  Luke's ability to think critically makes her so proud of “her” students.

When she thinks about it now, the girl realizes that these three people are rather unlikely influences.  As she got older, she disliked the pastor’s personality.  She and Hailey are friends, but never best friends.  Luke did not seem like the sharpest sword in the armory, and his older sister had made the girl’s life a nightmare during middle school.  Nonetheless, she was “ever sensible of the warmest gratitude” toward the three—who, by their brief interactions, had been the means of uniting the girl with her calling.

The Rime of the Ancient Once-ler, Part 1

It is an ancient Once-ler
You meet at edge of town.
Once paid he calls by Whisper Phone
He slowly lowers down.

The Grickle-grass grows still below
The cold wind does not blow.
And even birds respect the calm
From chick to oldest crow.

He takes your cents and copper nail
And puts them in his Snuvv,
So too the ancient mollusk's shell
Does vanish in his glove.

He clears his throat and takes a breath
This Once-ler yet unseen,
And through the snergly hose he speaks
Of when the grass was green.

You hold the phone up to your ear
And pray to clearly hear
The quiet strangled secrets of
The furtive Once-ler.

"The cart was filled, investors thrilled
Merrily I drove
Past ponds yet clean, past rivers wet,
Past clouds still white above.

The Swomee Swans flew forward off
And flew from east to west
I followed on; They sang their songs;
I knew their way was best.

Further and further every day
Towards this distant land--"
You ask him then if this was when
The Lorax here did stand.

The street on which you walked to here
Is Lifted Lorax Way.
Perhaps this man will tell you soon
Who carried him away.

You ask him now if this was then
And pray yet still to hear
The quiet strangled secrets of
The furtive Once-ler.

"And then I saw the Bar-ba-loots
Who frisked in their brown suits
And ate the strangest foreign crop,
Some yet unheard of fruits.

With liquid notes of perfect tone
As one who often sings alone
Can use the time to careful hone
His voice as he would wish,
Then sang out loud a mighty crowd
Of merry Humming-Fish.

And then there came the Truffulas
The most astounding trees
They felt of silk, or some such ilk,
They scented ev'ry breeze.

And in that wood I stopped for good
And quickly set up shop.
A businessman, I forged a plan
To reach the tufts atop.

My axe chopped here, my axe chopped there
My axe chopped all around:
The tree did sway and soon gave way
And crashed down to the ground.

And from the stump there rose a form
Out of the wood it came!
And with a mossy voice it spoke
The Lorax was its name.

He bid me stay and hear his words
And gave a dusty sneeze
"The wood is dumb; it has no tongue,
I speak here for the trees."

I saw the thing but kept at work
And worked with lighting speed.
He held his fit while I did knit
A wondrous proto-Thneed.

The Lorax huffed, the Lorax puffed
He nearly tore a lung.
"What is a Thneed? Whence comes thy greed?"
"Don't worry, sir, I'm done."

But here the Once-ler hesitates
"The Market...it has needs.
There's work to do, I'll build a crew
To manufacture Thneeds."

Rebirth

He thought he would post
Just a little bit more
Just to see if the others would know.

He waited a week.
He waited for four.
Not a hint of a new status quo.

So he set out to post
On the regular, yo
And revitalize this all alone.

For the Founder was changed
By the years, joy, and woe,
And 'twas time to see how he had grown.

But when he set out
Once again to the scene
To unleash to the world something new

It seemed someone had come
And so someone had seen,
And the project belonged now to two.

With the Witch from the North
(Though she claims "of the West")
The new project would be of new ease.

And they'll toil along
And they'll quit if that's best
Or they'll work til the Missing One sees.

For though he is gone
He was most loath to go
And his absence was last to take hold.

And perhaps he'll return,
To resume the old show
And we'll birth a new age of new gold.

But the plan from the first
Was to build and not call
And though one of the host is returned

We continue to make.
May our writing recall
What we were joined to what we have learned.

An Election's Carol

Barack Obama, Hussein to his friends, rolled over once more, trying to get comfortable. This late in his second and final term, he was sleeping as poorly as he had before he had found and returned to Hillary the damning evidence that would prove Foster's murder. Apparently, it had been just stuck under the mattress. He had asked her about that one.

"Seriously, Chill," he said (she liked to be called Chillary nowadays), "Why would you hide the blackmail letters and depression-inducing drugs right where anyone could find them?"

"Well what else was I-" She broke into a coughing fit. "Sorry, what-HCKK-what was I supposed to do with them. Leave them on the nightstand?"

"You could just destroy the evidence, like I did back when I immigrated from Kenya."

"Destroy the evidence?" She seemed to be overwhelmed by this new idea.

"Yeah, just delete it from the record."

"Delete?" She furrowed her brow in thought and then gasped, pulling out her Blackberry. "I gotta go! I have 30,000...meetings to go to. Heh."

"Wait! I also have this outline of how 9/11 was an inside job."

"Oh, that's not mine. Probably was put there after I left."

Those were the days. Now she was off on the campaign trail, and she'd recently invited the Obamas along. Barack had refused. He beat her to the Oval Office. He wasn't gonna back no loser. Michelle had accepted, though. Now he was alone at the White House, his daughters being off at their Aunt Ginsburg's seminar on how to destroy the Constitution when they grew up to be secret Muslim gay abortionist activist justices like herself. Hopefully they had enough at the seance to call up both Malcolm X and Margaret Sanger, but really all that mattered was that they had fun. 

He glanced at the clock. 11:59 PM. He sighed. He'd gone to bed immediately after evening prayers to Mecca, but he just couldn't sleep. He found his box of cigs in the darkness. With the girls out, he could at least do something to make the night go a little more smoothly. He lit a match and nearly screamed at the ghostly face he saw.

"Who are you?" he cried.

"Do you not recognize me, Hussein?" asked the apparition.

"Of course I don't. Why would I-- wait! Yes! Vince Foster?"

"It is I."

"But you were taken care of decades ago!"

"BARACK HUSSEIN OBAMA!" thundered the apparition spookily. "I have come to show you the error of your ways. Three spirits will visit you tonight, and they shall reveal to you what will happen if you allow your illegal executive actions to be reversed by the next president. Only by stumping for Hillary will you prevent the rise of the righteous Christian nation the Founding Fathers intended."

Pokémon: The Golden Apocalypse, Chapter Twenty-Seven

     Perhaps Nyoromo was not entirely helpless, but the occasional bubble was no match for the vicious flock that waited outside. They wouldn't be able to fight their way out, but it was doubtful they could stay here either. The wind was picking up again, and loose dirt and small rocks were beginning to trickle down into the shallow cave they sheltered in. The might of the birds probably couldn't tear the tree from the soil, but Red suspected they could find some way to kill or expose them if they had long enough.

     "You don't have any other attacks you've been hiding from me, do you?" asked Red.

     "Wag," said Nyoromo, looking a little deflated.

     "Hey, no. Don't feel bad. You did good fending off that thing. We'd already be done for if not for you."

     "Poli?"

     "Yes, really," said Red, feeling foolish that he was holding a conversation with an animal.

     "Poliwag!" Before Red could stop him, Nyoromo scurried out to the entrance, puffed up to his large size. He staggered for a moment in the wind before blowing a bubble. Or, rather, attempting to blow the bubble. The film was pushed flat against his face by the gale, which grew stronger and stronger until Nyoromo flew back and bounced off Red's head, landing in his lap.

     "Ow!" Red cried. "Are you okay, Nyoro- Ow!" He rubbed his forehead where a pebble had struck him. The incoming detritus was growing in both size and amount. Before Nyoromo could do anything stupid, Red scooped the little thing up in his pack. Ignoring the pokémon's cries, he folded his arms over it and waited with his head bowed against the rising storm. Twigs and rocks struck almost continually, but none had enough force to draw blood. Red reminded himself of this fact repeatedly to aid his struggle against panic. 

     The winds continued for some long minutes, and Red shifted uncomfortably. When this proved difficult, he opened his eyes, blinking in the dust. The little cave he was in was filling up with dirt, and he was slowly being buried. Though he wasn't in immediate peril, it was clear that he would either be forced to face the pidgey's avenging family or accept that he sat in his own tomb. 

     Red pulled out Nyoromo and whispered fiercely to the tiny pokémon that surely could not comprehend. "We're going to make a break for it. It's our only hope, and it's a small one. I'm going to carry you out. If you have any more attacks, use them. It's life or death. Hopefully, they'll give up if they don't see the dead pidgey." He stuffed that in the bag. "If they stop me, I'm going to throw you and you'll have to run and hide. Don't come back. Neither of us can beat these. Got it?"

     Nyoromo gurgled.

     "I guess that's good enough. Here we go, then. One. Two. Three!"

     Red heaved himself from the hole, but the dirt around him held him tighter than he had thought, and he fell flat on his face in the open. He hadn't even had time to get Nyoromo to safety. He braced himself for the inevitable attack.

     Then he realized that the forest had fallen silent. No shrieks. No wind. Everything was still until one high-pitched little voice spoke.

     "Pika?"

Organizationally Defunct

defunct

[dih-fuhngkt]

adjective

1.

no longer in effect or use; not operating or functioning:

a defunct law; a defunct organization.

2.

no longer in existence; dead; extinct:

a defunct person; a defunct tribe of Indians.

noun

3.

the defunct, the dead person referred to:

the survivors of the defunct.