Sunday Scribblings: Forbidden; Matinee Muse: Abuse of Power

‘If you must,’ his wife acquiesced. At the young man’s nod, she ushered her two sons upstairs.

The two young men stood, obviously bracing themselves for what was to come.

The father, his plea unheard by his wife, decided to try a different tack with the two gentlemen. He breathed deeply and calmed himself before speaking. “Look, guys, I don’t know what this is about or what my voting has to do with it, but I think we can talk about this. Sound like a plan?’

The two young men actually chuckled. They now flanked the father, to the left and right of the chair in which he sat. The taller one spoke. ‘Sir, we were interested in talking, but you wanted to be difficult. And in front of your wife and kids. You’ve just proven that you’re a bad influence. We’re here to help you, your family, your neighborhood, and your country. We are here to start teaching you about patriotism.’

‘Patriotism? Are you saying I am not patriotic? I believe in the Constitution, the American flag. Everything that this country has stood for since its founding. I believe in checks and balances. Executive, legislative, judicial. I believe in…’

‘Sir, we don’t particularly care about your views of American history. Or about your beliefs. We care about your actions. And according to those, you have opposed the ideals of this country. Now, please stand and make this easier for us.’

He sat, careful not to make any rash movements. The two young men obviously outmatched him in strength. And they had him surrounded. He grasped the arms of the chair, about to rise.

There came from the front door a knock. His wife descended from her perch atop the stairs, intending to answer, but the short, stocky man held his fat hand up to her and made for the door. He opened to find an old woman who the husband immediately recognized as the odd Miss Oneiros from down the street. The families on the street knew little about her, except that she enjoyed her evening walks with her two Pomeranians, Bia and Eris. She had moved into the neighborhood about six months earlier and she kept to herself.

‘Hello, young man. Is the man of the house at home?’ she asked.

‘Uh…’ The young man stuttered for a moment. ‘He is not available, ma’am.’

She glanced inside at the husband. ‘But he’s sitting right there,’ she spoke matter-of-factly. ‘Why are you fibbing to me?’

‘Excuse me ma’am. I said he is not available. I suggest you leave.’

She began to speak, mumbling at first. As if she was having some kind of autistic episode. Those listening caught only a few incoherent words. She finished. Then, she began what sounded like a rehearsed speech. ‘We are the Sons and Daughters of Liberty. Your abuse of power has ended. What you have forbidden, we will do. What you have given, we will take. What you have taken, we will redeem. The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure. ‘

‘Look, lady, I’ve been patient. I’ll only tell you once more. Get the hell outta here.’

She raised her cane and poked him in the chest. ‘Young man, you leave me with no choice.’ As he swung his arm to knock the cane from the woman’s hand, she pulled a hidden trigger at the head of the cane and watched as the young stocky man fell backwards, his head leaking blood.

‘Oh shit!’ the tall young man yelped. He pulled his concealed weapon but didn’t have the chance to fire. Another shot came from outside killing him instantly.

The husband sat in the chair staring at the old woman.

‘Well, I dare say you’d better come with me, Paul. I don’t think you’ll be safe here. Will your family be joining you?’ Miss Oneiros asked sweetly.

This entry is meant to stand alone, but it is also part of a developing story.
See Part 1
See Part 2

3WW: Intervene, Deliberate, Nourish

He sat on his bed cradling his head in his wrinkled hands. Remembering that night when it happened, when his family was torn asunder.

He, his wife, and their two sons were watching an episode of the twelfth season of American Idol when he heard a knock at the door. He found standing on his stoop two young men dressed in white shirts and black pants. Mormons, he thought.

'Good afternoon, sir,' the tall dark-haired boy spoke clearly, confidently. 'Do you have a moment to speak with us?'

'No, I'm sorry, I'm enjoying some rare family time with my wife and sons,' he said hoping that they might respect family time.

'This concerns them as well,' said the shorter, stockier boy. He took a deliberate step forward, positioning himself in such a way that the door would not be able to close.

'Look, I'm really not interested in what you have to say. I don't wanna be a Mormon.'

The two young men chuckled. 'Oh, we're not Mormon. We'd just like to have a word.' They simultaneously stepped into the welcome mat inside the house backing the father into the living room.

'Honey,' the father said, 'We've got company.' His wife emerged from the den.

'Oh yes,' she said. 'These two young gentleman said they were going to return. Did I not tell you?'

The father shook his head.

'Please sit down,' she said to them. 'Can I get you something to drink?'

'No, ma'am. We are just here to speak with your husband, but you and your children are welcome to sit and listen.'

'Oh that's fine. Let me get the boys.' She walked from the room.

The father sat in his chair and looked at the young men seated on the love seat. Something wasn't right; he felt it. When his wife and kids were seated on the couch, the young men commenced.

'Do you agree that you need to nourish young children's hearts, minds, and souls?' The dark haired boy started.

'Yes,' the father said uncertainly. The mother, meanwhile, was pumping her head vigorously with approval.

'We feel the same. We are concerned that the young people in our country are not receiving the proper direction. And according to your neighbors, your family is at risk.'

'What?' the father asked. 'Why? What are you talking about?'

'We are here, sir, on behalf of your family and friends to intervene. We work for a government agency that ensures that families are protected from harmful influences.'

The father looked over at his wife. 'Do you know what they're talking about?'

'Yes, hon, they told me about this last week. It's for your good and for the good of our family.' She said matter-of-factly.

'Okay, look. I'm not abusive. I've never been abusive. I love my wife. I raise my kids well, I think. I've raised 'em to think for themselves and be who they wanna be. I worked hard at my job. I mean, I know I've been laid off, but I'm looking. I love my country. I vote; I'm an active member of the community. A den leader. A dues-paying member of the Democratic party. A softball player. What am I doing wrong?'

'Sir, for whom did you vote in the last election?'

'What? Are you kidding?' He saw on their face their utter seriousness. 'That's none of your goddam business!'

'I'm sorry, ma'am,' the stocky young man directed his comments at the wife, 'I think we're going to have to bring him with us.'


Please see this previous 3WW post for part 1 of the story.

3WW: Agree, Execute, Providence

'And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.'

The old man folded the brittle page carefully and slipped it into his pocket. The small crowd lingered for a time. Mostly old, infertile women. There were a few men, those who had survived. And a smattering of women lucky enough to have born a child or two.

After a time enjoying the scenery - they chose a different spot each year - the elders hobbled back to camp; the younger men and women followed. They could not gather in large groups for any period of time outside the anti-detection perimeter they had constructed lest the new government of the United States find them and execute them.

But on this one day, the former Independence Day, this group of rebels asserted their freedom by gathering outside their perimeter. A brief, symbolic gesture to declare their rights to life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.

The old man did not immediately return to the village. Instead, by the light of the dying sun, he journeyed to the edge of a nearby cliff and stared into the valley where he saw, in the distance, a gleaming city with highways crisscrossing about it. Odd that he lived so close to the place where he had lived another life. Where his children most likely still lived. And where his wife had chosen to die. A city of high-tech slavery. The city a microcosm of the country that itself had sold its soul to the devil in return for a blend of hedonism and ultimate power.

He made his way back across the familiar path in the darkness of the new moon. When at the gates, he spoke the password, 'I do not agree with a word that you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it. Voltaire.' And with the final word the young man bade him enter.