It was a bright cold day in Trumpril, and the clocks with elaborately baroque gold scrollwork were striking thirteen.
I’d just finished my daily food ration, a few ounces of gray, flavorless protein paste made of ground-up crickets, when Emperor Barron Trump the First appeared on our TV screens. There was some mention of it being the anniversary of his ascension. Was it one year? Or two?
It really doesn’t matter anyway. He may as well have been emperor for 10,000 years. So few remember the America that was, only half a lifetime ago. It has simply passed from memory.... More