Fiction

Introduction: I teach an elective Dystopian Literature class for seniors at the high school level. One of the assignments was to take a current event or issue and create a doom and gloom timeline, imagining that issue through a serious of steps towards a dystopian world. Students would complete the timeline and then write a short story about that world. This past year I wrote one of my own after RFK Jr was appointed Secretary of Health and Human Services. Soon after, we did have a measles outbreak, which began in Texas. At the time of writing this post (July 15, 2025, CDC.gov) measles is no longer eradicated. We currently have 1,309 cases reported across 40 jurisdictions, with 92% of those cases being unvaccinated individuals. There have been 3 confirmed deaths at the moment according to the CDC. The following story is the world I imagined as a result of the poor policies being enacted by our current fascist regime. It is a work of fiction, written before the outbreak.

Dandelions

We can pinpoint the beginning of the end for us as a country, that defining moment that is no longer in our history books (do they even exist anymore?). Well maybe it is just that old straw that broke the camel’s back, as my father used to say. Our country was in turmoil. We were divided, riding on the fumes of sanctimonious bullshit and a superiority complex. There were few left to proselytize, few who remember when we had access to information, when we were connected and lived in towns like Springdale. Peeling propaganda posters still adorn the crumbling walls of our former bustling home, “Make America healthy again” and “More babies, better future.” If you are lucky you might find an old frayed pamphlet calling for resistance, selling for a hefty price on the black market, a last sliver of hope for redemption. The resistance was still alive, although well-hidden now, driven underground by anti-intellectualism and fear.

I drag myself from my chair, shredded upholstery, but still fairly comfortable. My bones ache as I pull myself up, fumbling for my makeshift cane, a necessity these days. My hair is shorn, shaved close to my head to stave off the lice and to hide my sex from any outsiders, as there are still those ignorant enough to believe that I am still fertile. I stumble out of my small dwelling, heading for a delivery at the border. I stoop over when walking through the crumbling ruins, my mission clear, to make it to the exchange this last time. I am handing the reins over to those more able-bodied. Edward, the latest leader of our active resistance, has my replacement trained already. Edward’s brilliant scientific mind is a rarity in what remains of our country and he has worked tirelessly throughout the years to make just a small seed of a difference. Most of the remaining inhabitants of our country had already fled to safer lands after the second measles epidemic. That deadly bout had killed many more of our children, at least double the number right after the vaccines had been abolished.

The pavement is littered with trash, weeds and despair. A gangly teen pushes me out of the way as he scrambles over the uneven pavement, perhaps heading home. I fall on the rough surface, and a sharp pain radiates up my arm. If I just stayed here, would I become invisible? Maybe I already am. Those few inhabitants left do not even notice me anymore, their despair evident on worn faces. I am no use to them in my current state. I was never any use to them, my infertility an inconvenience and I was shunned after birth control was outlawed and I remained barren. I must finish up my notes, and slip them through the opening at the border in Cornwall, where gentle hands will collect and compile it for future generations (if there are any left.) Each account that I have fed the faceless body through the crack in the reinforced wall has been met with a soothing voice, a gentle “merci, j’espere que tu vas bien.” The voice attached to the gloved hand would then place a cloth-wrapped package in my own hand. If I looked closely through the cracks I would not see a man, but a mysterious being hidden behind a protective suit to ward off any lingering viruses that I might pass on. My offering, a written account of our struggles, would be relayed to Canadian scientists. Some of them were originally refugees from our own country, when the first waves of people were being rounded up and sent to concentration camps. My understanding is that they were currently tracking the outbreaks, adjusting their own vaccines, just in case one of us managed to escape and spread our stupidity and misfortune.

We have not received word in many years from others on this side of the border, shut off from the New York communities as we are in the east. Our own country has been divided in more ways than one. Fascism does that, you know? I know, from my time at the border that there are pockets of us, the resistance, spanning the entire length of our land, living alongside those still in denial. With that knowledge there is a small spark of hope hidden within my bones, but that spark dims with each passing day. That is what keeps our species going right? That hope for an end to our constant illnesses, for an abatement from the stench of rotting corpses lining the perimeter of our town, for future generations to thrive? As I scramble back from the wall, weary from my journey, I notice dandelions peeking out from the cracks in what used to be an Interstate, back when we traveled freely across our country. Nature always fights back and wins, and currently humans are losing.

We thrived before that first measles epidemic, before vaccines were outlawed and the virus began its deadly mutation joyride. Our children were the first to perish; so many lives were claimed just within that first year, the sound of church bells rang after each tiny body was laid to rest. Fewer children meant fewer tax-paying adults to support the Leader. By that point he had outlawed birth control as I mentioned before, honoring his vow to keep as many young fertile vessels as pregnant as possible. As a wave of those women succumbed to disease and our birth rates plummeted, we plunged into economic ruin. Only then was the alarm raised. It was, unfortunately, too late.

I lost my love during the first of many waves of violence that shook our land after the pandemic. I buried Jonython’s body with the help of my best friend, deep within the forest, away from prying eyes. His last days were torture. I tended to his swollen body with warm compresses, and played soft music in the background in hopes that he could sleep. Twenty four hours later the rash appeared, first on his hands, then spreading up his arms and torso. Between the itching, the rash, and the fever, he spent most of his days in agony. At that point the supply of pain killers was depleted, and we were unable to afford any on the black market. I was relieved when he passed away that evening. I cried over his still, cold body, surprised that I had any tears remaining. All I have left of him now are bits of poetry, his neat handwriting on wrinkled lined paper, and pressed yellow daisies from the first bouquet he gave me.

Two days after Jonython left me, the borders were completely sealed. We were no longer welcome in Canada or Mexico. Both of our former allies had a renaissance of sorts after the walls were erected, thousands of miles of steel infrastructure built to keep us out. Our scientists, engineers, and physicians had already planted new roots in our neighbor lands, making medical discoveries that would allow their new countrymen to flourish. From the snippets of gossip traded along the border, I hear that new scientific discoveries sparked a golden age, spurred on by the eradication of the diseases that wiped us out. I stayed for love. I was young and naive, and we would have been welcomed abroad as members of the creative class, but Joyn was idealistic. He thought that we could win against a tyrant. He thought that once the bastard was overthrown, we would return to enlightenment. “Sara” he said, “you are my flower, my hope, my joy, as long as we can continue to dream, we have a future.” We both began our second careers as members of the resistance, crafting articles and poetry against the regime in hopes of overpowering the propaganda.

I was continuing his work, passing messages through the gaps in the wall as I watch the remaining members of my community wither and die. But the trip to the border is too hard on my frail body and I have come to the realization that I cannot save them all. My naivety has withered and died and I am beginning to believe that we are beyond hope. I imagine our neighbors, watching and waiting for us to become extinct so that they can gain access to our resources. I will send news to Edward so that he can alert my replacement.

I scrounge for scraps of food, I receive coveted vaccines for my information and have so far managed to escape the worst of the plagues, but I am tired. My heart has become a bramble patch, all thorns and hard edges. I no longer mourn for the dead. I welcome their demise, as I wish for the end to slowly envelop us all in its warm embrace. I pick a dandelion, bring it closer to my face and inhale its nonexistent scent. I am a flower perhaps, but I am dull, withered, and devoid of sunlight. I will gift this account, alongside the clear serum I recently received from the disembodied hand, to my successor. The dandelion’s cheery face stares at my wrinkled one. I take the delicate blossom between my two fingers and crush it, watching the yellow petals float to the crumbling earth as I begin to wait for my own demise.