Letters From After, Day 2

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[Day 1]

Dear Bunky,

After we were dismissed to our barracks and given 10 minutes to lights out, I lay in the dark and it started to sink in that this is really happening. Yesterday morning I got up from my comfy bed in our nice suburban home, and by noon we were on our way to wherever this is, encouraged at gunpoint to leave everything behind and get on the bus. If Sandi wasn’t with me and depending on me not to get us killed, I probably would have resisted. Wouldn’t I have?

I didn’t sleep much, just kept thinking about how all this happened and when it all turned into what it’s turned into. The angry old men and women who run the government were annoying with their smarmy smiles and condescending attitudes, but who really thought they were capable of this? I mean, they don’t even know how to balance a checkbook, how could they possibly be able to organize camps for their enemies, if that’s what they think we are? I guess I found out.

There was one guy on the bus who wouldn’t stop screaming about his constitutional rights and how they can’t do this and We the People ain’t gonna stand for it, and one of the chaperones went back and had a couple guards hold him down while he duct-taped the guy’s mouth and hands. They hustled him off the bus first when we got here. I didn’t see him at supper.

If I’m angry, I’m angry at myself for getting caught flat-footed. I really didn’t think guys with guns would show up at our door and haul us away, at least, not until guys with guns showed up at our door and hauled us away. I lay there in the dark afterward thinking of all the plans I could have been making, heck, we could have snuck into Canada, it’s only a few hours from our house.

Breakfast this morning wasn’t bad. I guess they plan to treat us humanely except for the part where they put us in a prison camp for not talking politely about our rulers. I guess I should have listened when those college kids told us to shut up and do as we’re told, because it’s not nice to tell the truth about the political bosses who steal from the poor to make themselves rich. I suppose they’ll read this letter and you’ll never get it anyway, Bunk, but I have to try. You have to be wondering why I didn’t show up at work or call or anything. Come to think, why would they give me this pen and paper and tell me to write you letters? It’s probably some kind of setup where they’ll seize the letters and use them as proof I’m a domestic terrorist.

Well, here’s my confession, Mister Judge and Ms. Jury, I think the people running the government are corrupt dopes, and they need to be gone. I should probably emphasize that by “gone” I mean arrested or at least voted out. Everyone knows I’m not violent, although I do wish I had defended myself and Sandi when I had the chance.

Right after breakfast we went back into lectures. People who believe in collective utopias sure do like to hear themselves talk. I guess I’m supposed to feel real bad about myself for believing in private property and free markets and all, because they really seem to hate that stuff and that’s what landed us here. Not that what we were living with was an actual free market by any stretch.

My rear end is sore from sitting all day listening to them talk about our bright future. I think the plan is to put us back into society once we’ve been properly re-educated, so maybe I shouldn’t be so honest telling you about how the speakers are all full of hooey. They may try harder to change my mind if I don’t tone it down. If I just smile and tell them what they want to hear, maybe I’ll go home sooner. Nah, it couldn’t be that easy.

Published by WarrenBluhm

Wordsmith and podcaster, Warren is a reporter, editor and storyteller who lives near the shores of Green Bay with his wife, two golden retrievers, Dejah and Summer, and Blackberry, an insistent cat. Author of Full, Refuse to be Afraid, Gladness is Infectious, 24 flashes, How to Play a Blue Guitar, Myke Phoenix: The Complete Novelettes, A Bridge at Crossroads, The Imaginary Bomb, A Scream of Consciousness, and The Imaginary Revolution.

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