The dog stood guard in front of her doghouse, growling at the mere smell of the humans nearby. She sniffed some more and realized one human was approaching, and quickly. She barked and growled further, but the human stepped up in front of her and put his hands on his hips.
I’m done with this shit. I’m done. It took about nine months, but this election cycle has finally broken me.
2012 was a blast. I remember all those sick election memes. Binders full of women. Horses and bayonets. Joe Biden cackling at every word coming out of Paul Ryan’s mouth. We had a silly primary where we watched as all of the stupid or crazy candidates argued and tripped over their words, but we knew that the victor was going to be the nicely dressed Mormon guy who wasn’t babbling about moon bases or tax plans ripped from a video game. Then we had a good, clean general election with two sane and articulate candidates and their relatively sane and articulate running mates. Each debate was its own event, the culmination of weeks worth of current events, where the interested minority tuned in while the masses watched lesser programming. It was slow. Ratings were low. Nobody besides me, a couple of friends, and probably a bunch of old people cared. It was truly a gentleman’s sport.
You are the guiding light, a shining beacon of logic singing out to the sane through the smog of confusion. Your love flows through me as it flows through the hearts of all Americans, straight and gay, black and white, liberal and fascist. I feel it, Bernie. Those around me? They don’t understand you. They don’t hear your plight. They listen, but they don’t hear what I do. I hear your song and it fills me with joy. With passion. With lust. I need you, Bernie. I am but an insignificant flea on the back of the great best of burden that is you, Bernie, who plows the fields of America and sows the seeds of liberty that will be reaped by future generations. I am nothing before you, but you are my soul. Every waking thought is filled with the velvety sound of your voice and the soft folds of your face, your scars from decades of fighting for the disenfranchised on the battlefield of Washington. Where you walk, I will follow. Where you speak, I will listen. As long as you continue to fight, I will pick up my sword and charge headlong into battle for your glory. I shudder to think of what would happen if you… no, that is not even a possibility. To contemplate defeat is to welcome it into our folds, and that we cannot afford. We cannot lose this fight, for it is the will of the people. You will emerge victorious. The weak must fear the stong and Clinton will tremble at your feet.
May the gods smile upon you,
Aiden Thompson, Age 17
Kiara walked up to the service desk, turned in her medical forms, and went with the nurse into the one of the check-up rooms. She felt the tiny kicks against her stomach and smiled a little bit, but it quickly faded… she closed her eyes and began to pray.
Girl Walking on Wall
The wall in front of the girl was infinite. It was black with pink edges, and over its edge was an unending horizon of blank nothingness. And yet this young schoolgirl, her miniskirt flowing in the inexplicably-blowing breeze, straddled along the corner of the wall and paced down its forever-long pathway.