WRITING: Climate Change — Not Warming

Sunday, February 5, 2012

Climate Change — Not Warming

“My fellow Americans: It’s time to face the harsh reality that everyone must move South of Route 10 from Florida to California. All roads are closed except to Government convoys. Those under 40 or in key professions will receive transportation. You may only bring one carry on bag like on an airline. Make your decisions wisely since it’s unlikely you will ever be returning home. Stay calm, stay in your homes, and await further instructions from local authorities. May God bless us and God bless America.”

Then the panic began.

Apparently, humanity is about to under go another ice age. Supposedly, the wobble wobbled further than previously thought. So the polar ice cap will extend further south in North America. Think the Grand Canyon repeated.

There’s triage going on. The old, the poor, and the not-politically connected are to be sacrificed for the good of humanity. There’s just not enough room or time to move everyone. Southeast Asia is offering shelter at a thousand ounces of gold per head. That’s the cheapest. Mexico cut a deal with the US Government, but not for all 300 million people. Oh, and the greenback US dollar became worthless in minutes. As well as US debt and anything denominated in the USD. No surprise there. Think “frozen assets”.
There were priorities! Politicians and bureaucrats. Doctors, Lawyers, and Indian Chiefs. Billionaires and millionaires. Politically connected. Those under 30. Parents with children. Zoo animals.

Everyone else was expendible.

The old man wasn’t upset. After filling the bath tubs, he just went about his daily routine. He’d lived his life. Folks came by and said good bye on their way to the embarkation point. He gave some of his gold coins to each child. Each parent got some silver. There were tears, but not by him. It was just life passing him by. Again.

The no travel edict locked him into his house. He had his y2k supplies and hadn’t got rid of them like the other sunshine prepares.

This was TEOTWAWKI, but there was no survival since you couldn’t bug out. The TV was doing stories of folks, attempting to flee, being shot on the road side. Lots of human interest stories of folks getting out and arriving at their new homes. And, no commercials. Who cared about the soon to be dead market. Couldn’t even sell them funerals. They’d be the fossils discovered when the Ice Age ended.

Shortly, it got cold and started to snow. The old man thought about what it would be like to be an avalanche victim. SO using some old electrical conduit, he made a “smokestack” for fresh air. He hoped it would give him some extra time. In a disaster measured in “age” (i.e., the Ice Age), this extra time was his version of panic.

Eventually the snow covered the house. The windows looked out on a white wall. First to fail was the water. Then the gas supply. Then, the cable TV and internet. Then, the electric. All with in a day. Then it started to get cold. He’d put all the blankets on the bed and spent all his time under the covers. Other than quick trips to the WC or the kitchen, he was in bed. Some prayers. Some illusions. Some delusions.

With no way to keep time, no day / night cycle, he lost all sense of time. On one of his quick trips to the WC, he notice that the tub water was frozen. Wouldn’t be long now. He was almost out of sterno, but he had plenty of food.

Then he started to get a headache. Guess he should have stocked oxygen. The ice must have finally topped his “smokestack”. So no fresh air. Or, it was clogged. Really didn’t matter, sooner or later, something would run out.

As he drifted off to sleep, the long sleep, he wondered if this was global cooling, why wasn’t he cold?

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WRITING: Never going to be a victim

Saturday, February 4, 2012

I’ll never be a victim

How do I begin? I’m the oldest of three siblings. A girl. Tall for my age. 12½. Gawky. Athletic. Timid and shy. And, I’ve just started the change.

There, I’ve gotten it all out.

I’m writing this in my laptop’s journal so that the secret does not bust out of me. I don’t want to blurt it out. I’m a sinner and a criminal.

My uncle was a funny weird man. Before he died just recently. I mention that because he is a key to my coming of age. A young widower he always came to dinner from time to time. Always brought donuts. I loved those. For my plays, he brought flowers. For my events, like confirmation, he brought chocolate. For our vacations and occasions, he always gave me spending money. He was a nice old man who seemed to understand me and made me feel powerful. And smart. And really listened to me prattle on. Not grabby, like other relatives. He always let me come to him. I relaxed around him. From time to time, he’d bring me and my brothers strange gifts. Puzzles, crafts, and toys that all had challenges. Most of the time, we didn’t do them, but he never made any comment. He wanted us to learn “stuff”. With no apparent emphasis on anything in particular. Just “stuff”. He’d say: “Never know what stuff might come in handy.”

I remembered one thing that came in very handy. But more about that later.

He’d debate with my Dad about all sorts of political topics. They never saw eye to eye much. My Dad was a quiet liberal easy going guy. My Uncle a crazy hard line guy. They most disagreed about guns. At first, it was scary. We’re taught a school that only criminals have guns. And, our friends, the police, would keep us safe. I was shocked to hear that my Uncle had guns. And, that he believed that he had a right to keep them. And, he would use them if need be. He hadn’t had to kill another human being. But he always ended that sentence with “… yet!” I remember he often cowed my Dad into silence when he delivered a now familiar quote: “Victim disarmament is the view that it is somehow better to see a woman raped in an alley and strangled with her own pantyhose, than see her with a gun in her hand.” I was becoming a woman and I knew a little about sex. It was supposed to be beautiful when the time came. I went to the internet to read about rape. I understood my uncle’s revulsion with that criminal act. Somehow I felt safe when he was around. I remember how he talked about his guns as if they were people or virtues. He called them: “Vengence”, “Justice”, and his favorite “Peacekeeper”. He said had them in his house ready to defend as needed. Once time he confided that Peacekeeper’s safety was getting to hard for him to operate. And, that he’d solved that problem like his Great Aunt did before the War with rubber bands. He had rubber banded the grip safety so all he’d have to do was point and pull. My Mom and Dad were shocked and asked if that was dangerous. He laughed and said: “Nah! As long as when at my desk, I don’t bang it with my knee.” 
I don’t know why that stuck with me.

Fast forward. He died about a month ago. And, there’s a bunch of legal reasons why his house has to be left alone until everyone can clean it out. But, that being said, it’s just sitting there. Mom goes and collects the mail. Waiting for the papers to arrive. She’s sad about it, and not looking forward to the job.

This spring I started to, as my Mom puts it, bloom. I can see the physical changes. Everyone is treating me “different”. And, I get happy and sad for no reason. It’s all part of “blooming” as Mom said.

But there has been a bad side to this.

At my school, boys and girls go to class together. You have all sorts of different types: nerds, jocks, punks, emos, and some you can’t label. There’s a group of boys that are just gross. And, they pick on certain girls. Up to now, I’d been invisible to them. But as I started to “bloom”, they began to target me.

I didn’t know what to do.

At first, it was just talk. Dirty talk. About how they’d “help” me along. Then, they’d touch me. In the hall, brushing me. Then, they’d grab my butt. I’d come home and cry. Lately, they’d been sending me messages on my phone and putting porn in my locker through the slots. Always telling me how good they’d make me feel. And, soon. One of the leaders seemed to have me staked out. In his mind’s eye. Today, in school, he walked up to me and grabbed my breasts with both hands and squeezed. Hard. I slapped him. He laughed and said: “Today, after the bus drops us off, I’m gonna drag you behind a bush and do you. You ready?” I was in a panic. What could I do. Sitting in class, I remembered my uncle’s desk and what he said about victims. “No one in their right mind should want to be down range of a crazed woman with a gun. Women can kill when they are threatened. Like a Momma Bear with her cubs or woman about to be raped. I trust them to know when to fire. A criminal should be killed.” I did have a right to defend myself.

My uncle told me so!

My tormentor was on my bus home. The bus ride home was hell. He was in the back with his friends laughing and smirking. I was resolute. I sat by the driver. Uncle’s house was a few stops before mine. When the bus stopped, just as the last kid exited, I sprang off. Without looking back, I walked to Uncle’s house. My tormentor got off at the next stop about ½ block away and was running after me yelling something. I walked up the driveway, opened the garage door, entered, and locked it behind me. Uncle never did get that garage light fixed; it was always on. Picked my way through the maze of stuff to the door that led to his den. Locked the door behind me. Push aside his chair and scooted under the desk pulling the chair back in. There on the underside of the desk it was. “Peacekeeper”! I slid it out very gently. Like a sleeping snake. It was a gun just like on TV. It was heavy. But felt cold to the touch. I used two hands like they do on TV and just held it out in front of me. My uncle’s words echoed TV’s message: “Finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.” And waited.

It wouldn’t be long. I heard the banging on the garage door. Then window break. “Where are you, you tease. You’re only making this harded and me madder. It’s gonna really hurt and I’m going to enjoy you.” I heard noises. Some far. Eventually getting louder. “I can smell you.” The door to the den opened, and the tormentor was in the room. I was frozen in fear. Could he really smell me? Like dog or a wolf. “There you are? Come to daddy.” And the chair was pulled out. And, he reaching for me.

Finger to the trigger.

Explosion. Light flash. The brightest light I’d ever seen. The loudest noise I’d ever heard.

My uncle’s words to Dad echoed. “Pull the trigger until the gun locks open. Then use it as a club.” So I pulled. It wanted to shoot the ceiling, but I dragged it down to the floor. Five, Seven, Nine? Eventually the thing did lock open. The smell was terrible. I’d never smelled anything so gross. The charcoal grill, burnt meat, and a disgusting bowel movement all in one. Maybe I wet myself?
But my tormentor was nowhere in sight. I couldn’t see much. Blind! I felt around and there was a purse there. Open, with stuff in it, I could feel bullets and metal. So I put the gun in the purse.

Now a long time ago, Uncle had a dog. And, under his desk, was a doggie door. It was a big dog. Uncle was lazy and hated to get up to let the dog out. After the dog died he put a latch on the door to “keep the critters out”. I felt for the latch and let myself out. 
I walked home. Wondering what to do next?

My uncle’s voice gave me that answer too. To my Dad, he’d often say: “Shoot, shovel, and shut up.” So that’s what I did. Before going in the house, I went to my school project garden behind our garage and planted the purse. Our dog came out began licking my face. And, making a noise I’d never heard. Like it was telling me “I’m glad your home safe.” I was safe! And, a woman. Maybe not all the way. But I knew I was a powerful woman.

Went in the house, Mom asked: “How was school?” “OK.” “You’re late.” “I got off a few blocks early. Felt like walking. I was stiff from sitting all day.” “OK, but do your home work, practice tonight.” “OK”.

Today, I want to school; unafraid of the bully. Secure that, when I have sex, it will be with the boy whom I choose. But the school was all a buzz, with the report of a missing child. Our friends, the Police, were asking each class if anyone saw him. Me, and bunch of others, dutifully reported he was on the bus. Others said that he got off before his usual stop. No one reported what a pig he was. I was following Uncle’s last bit of advice: “Silence”. Today in library, I listened to a YouTube video: “Never talk to the police”. So, when I’m questioned, as I’m sure I will be, I’m just going to be a young girl too terrified of them to speak. Works on TV. Figure when the court papers, that my Mom is waiting for, come everyone will find out what happened to the “poor lost child”. The predator pig! Wonder if they’ll figure out what happened? Wonder if they will figure out that I’m the murderer? Wonder if I’ll go to jail?

Once thing is for sure, Uncle was right. Thanks, Uncle! School was OK today and I’ve learned some of that “stuff” you were trying to teach me. I’ve decided. I’m never going to be a victim.

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WRITING: Entering

Monday, January 16, 2012

Entering

The captain walked to the back of the hovel. “All secure, Sergeant?” “Yes, sir.” “Report!” “3 of ours KIA, 2 WIA, 4 natives wasted. We breached as planned. No resistance; till we found the old man in the back bedroom. He started firing; caught us by surprise. Number One, WIA, was the first man; lost an ankle. The next three caught rounds in the face; killed instantly. Including the Louie. Fifth, a knee. Sixth, Tom, got him. The men wanted some payback and wasted 3 other ragheads.” “Very well. Get the wounded back to base fast. Load the dead. Search for weapons and contraband. Back to base for replacements. And, get an new interpreter. Can’t believe we hit the wrong address again.” The captain went over and took a shiny new Colt 1911 from the dead old man’s hand.

“And how we burned in the camps later, thinking: What would things have been like if every Security operative, when he went out at night to make an arrest, had been uncertain whether he would return alive and had to say good-bye to his family? Or if, during periods of mass arrests, as for example in Leningrad, when they arrested a quarter of the entire city, people had not simply sat there in their lairs, paling with terror at every bang of the downstairs door and at every step on the staircase, but had understood they had nothing left to lose and had boldly set up in the downstairs hall an ambush of half a dozen people with axes, hammers, pokers, or whatever else was at hand? . . .” — Alexander Solzhenitsyn

The captain wondered what it would be like at home if this was done. Result would be the same. Resistance? Can’t afford to lose three men in security operations. This adventure would end quickly. No way 100,000 Americans could police millions of ragheads. Be the same at home. Anyone’s home. Maybe next time they’d just go for a ride around town and back to base. He had family he wanted to go home to. They all had family they wanted to home to. Even the ragheads had family they wanted to go home to. Damn politicians!

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WRITING: The big pension

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

The big pension

He read the story on the political website, but didn’t comment or blog about it. A politician works the system and gets a pension four times that of the President’s salary. His meager life had always been good enough for him while his wife was alive. Now with her passing, he was mad. Crazy mad. At the doctors. At the system. At all the things undone. Time to take out some anger.

It was really trivial. Google maps the politician’s home. Google all the stories. Google the likes and dislikes. The woman was a dog owner. Pets have to be walked. Take down the pocket rocket box that his wife had never opened. Load it. And wait for nightfall.

Park around the block. Get out and walk around. Twice. Here comes the woman walking her pet. Just walk by. Stop, draw, turn, and fire. Walk calmly away back to the car. Drive directly to the Staten Island ferry. Pay the man and drive on. Fifteen minutes late. Get out of the car and walk to the rail. Gun goes over the side.

The police were mystified. All the fruits and nuts who commented or posted. The various three letter agencies all looked for a pattern. The media lamented that a dedicated public servant never got to enjoy her well earned pension. A story was even planted about another similar case. But our cowardly hero was out of the business. After all he only had one pocket rocket. And, it was the pattern, even random, that would catch the culprit.

Another politician decided that was no fluke and he passed on the opportunity to do the same thing. Another internet patriot put two and two together and blogged the story. And, another lonely old woman said that might be something she could do with her husband’s old hand gun.

Who says that one anonymous old man can’t change the world? It just requires some “wet work” by patriots.

Again!

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WRITING: Dog in the manger

Thursday, December 29, 2011

Dog in the manger

“We’ll be back in the morning with your new roomates.” The TSA “housing officer” turned and stomped out.

Well they had finally caught up with him. Having one person living in the ancestral three bedroom hovel was indeed not “fair” to all the folk who had less. It was up to him to share as Big Brother decided was equitable. But he’d been paying, and would continue to pay. Well, the time had arrived. It would be dark soon.

He walked outside and took two thin little sticks taped to the downspout and found their place in the lawn. One taller than the other. It went furthest from the house; the shortest closer.

It’d been a good house. Filled with joy. Of course, there was sadness. Who can balance such things. But it was his. He paid the mortgage off in good times and bad. He’d paid the ever increasing taxes that made him feel like a renter. Or a serf to the feudal lord. He couldn’t be any more attached to it than if he’d actually mowed the lawn for himself. There were no children to leave it to, but still the State didn’t have the courtesy to wait until he died to steal it. He knew that any protest was futile. Redress of grievances would have to wait for a higher court.

There were a few last chores to do. He took a ride in the ratty old truck around town with a little box glowing green. Its mates woke up from their slumber and glowed green in sympathy. He drove to the park. A little less than a mile away. Where the happy couple had thought their children would play. Every time he passed, he thought that way. Who’d have believed that it would end this way. At least, she wasn’t here to see it. That made him free. He was uplifted as he walked back from the park.

But it would be dark soon. He had his last meal in the old house. Oatmeal. That’s all he could afford. He then packed a small kit to take to the new world. If he made it. Anything of value was in that. Wife’s ring, his diploma, picture of his first car. Those were the idyllic days when anything was possible. Before the boot on the neck. And the little entrenching tool from WW2. Where had that been. Never in as desperate situation as now.

At full dark, he turned off the light. Opened the valves. Waited for his eyes to adjust. Let himself out and walked to the park. It was dark. He was in black. And, no one cared. One didn’t look out one’s windows these days. Better not to see the experiment ending.

To the park and up that little hill commanding the heights. Six paces from the top marker towards the house, five at starboard forty five, and dig. The ground was hard from decades of sleep. When the Government first said his tools were “illegal”, he’d stored them for a rainy day. And, they were so stupid they couldn’t remember he had them. Three foot down. Half the distance for a grave. Would be if he was found. There were the long laid down tools. In pvc tubes, dirty but unbent. He laid the three side by side. This was the Rubicon. In the twinkle of an Irish Eye, the thought came: “It was her house.” That decided it. The thermite was struck and immediately flared. As if it had been freshly placed. The tools emerged from their long sleep. The dry ice, solid no more, smoked like a cigarette from the white tube casket. “George” and “Martha”, twin 45’s, were holstered once again. “Little Joe”, an American sten, was loaded and primed. And, finally, “Big Ben”, all 12 pounds of his 50 cal frame, was ready to rock.

From his fighting hole, he deployed his cover. The enemy would control the air. But, if he was lucky, and they were up to their usual subpar, he could escape after his task. His estimates wandered from slim to none. With stops at crazy, and what have you done. False dawn passing. His sweat cooled. He smelled homeless which would soon be true. But he carried his home in his heart. Along with the murder he was about to do. Peaceful by nature, never to strike the first blow, he respond to this aggression, with a kick in the nuts. Be careful of the quiet ones. Still water runs deep. Courage is to bear the little insults and respond to the big ones with all the outrage of a mother bear defending her cub. Homes are not cubs, but they can be symbols. Of what should have, might have, or could have been. Hence ikons of faith and hope. There’d be no charity here. Dawn.

Time to get to work. There were distances to confirm, angles to mark, little sticks to line up, and prayers to be said. Quickly done for it was mere a repeat of what had been planned. Drilled in the mind’s eye during each affront and insult. That glassy eyed stare at the “Nazi du jour” was not apathy. But vengeance being planned. Beware that stare should it be aimed at you. The bell tolls. That bell’s for you.

It was really anticlimactic. At first, he thought they wouldn’t show. But about 10, they did. Four cars. One truck. A squad of sixteen men. Six officers. One of whom was that “housing officer”. Three men and a officer blocked the street. Three men each to a sides of the house. The ones going on the closest side broke those sticks without noticing. No matter the mark had been set at the business end. It was really child’s play. He had no time to watch the show; there was work to be done. “Big Ben” ate 15 at a time, so there’d be a reload or two. Quick would be the word and sharp at the mark. For this was his.

It sounded like a cannon, but, in truth but a whisper, silence is golden and a silencer is de rigueur. Like Sargent York’s instruction about geese, you shoot the ones who can’t be seen by the others. Bang, bang, bang, bang, … as methodical as driving nails with a nail gun. The Misguided Children were right. Let God sort them out. The road guard disposed of. He took the back guard. They were easy the one facing back was first. Facing the back next. Finally, the guy who realized he had only seconds. He could see his eyes widen in terror. No matter. The time for realization that one was a “Nazi” was long ago. Today there was merely retribution. The officers in front next. By now, they’d figured out that they were “Custer” and someone else was “Sitting Bull”. Old ideas die hard. And, misperceptions deadly. They’d done this to the sheep so many times that they’d forgotten that there was a thing called a sheep dog. They paid with their lives. Running for cover was an amusing attempt. A 50 cal is no match for a car door. Put two in and watch the blood drip. But there was still the living to tend too. One obvious vet had thrown himself down to play dead. Since he wanted to play, I helped him to be realistic. A few threw down their weapons and put their hands up. Sorry, this isn’t the movies. This is Fifth Generation War. Bang, bang, bang.

The clock in his head was ticking louder and louder. Ammo was no problem; time was. Some one had to have called for help. If he was to survive, he’d better be quick. And lucky. He paused to survey the killing field. He thought he got everyone. But need to be sure. None should survive. Maybe that was a bad plan? One should of to tell the tale. Nah, he’d stick to the plan.

Then he heard the tell tale noise. Rotors. His life had gotten shorter. Maybe he could hit his miracle shot. The copter would be over the house. That was 800 meters. Let’s guess and altitude of a 1,000 feet. At eight inches per thousand drop on a level. What’s the drop at say 45 degrees? Aww, hell, there’s no time to calculate. If he even could. Call it 16 mils and aim high. “Big Ben” said “feed me”. So AP it was. Only five. They cost a cspot each at the local black market. Fired four at the bird. And may have got lucky. It spun off with smoke.

Time to bring the curtain down. So far we’d been lucky. Me and my friends — George, Martha, Little Joe, and Big Ben. But luck runs out and sevens always come. And the double zero is there to break up red and black. So into the stock where those two sticks lined up. And one AP round into the buried gas meter later, the old house was history. The gas in the house, fired by the gas at the meter, put splinters for meters. The smoke was amazing; the flame not bad either. Be long time before anyone could get near her.

So it was time to move on. “Big Ben” said “more”. But we were low on ammo and the targets were covered with wood chips. Slung Ben. Picked up Joe. And, quick march to the truck. This is where it could get dicy. Would anyone have figured out where the highpoint was? “Little Joe” was for that last fire fight. As I emerged from the park I still saw no one. Maybe some disadvantaged urban yutes inspecting cars but they were up the block. I think they saw Little Joe. Maybe they just saw a killer and decided “professional courtesy”. Either way Little Joe went on the front seat. Big Ben to the back. On the floor; not the rack. As I crossed the main road, I figured I need to give the Gooferment something else to think about. Pressed the button and a red light lit. Could hear the explosions. The high point looked like a volcano. Amazing what diesel, fertilizer, and some PriD do. Time to concentrate on the road.

Six non-stop hours later, he was in the Free State thanks to the back roads. He stopped at the first bar. After a pit stop, he ordered his first scotch in his new life. “Barkeep, is my gun safe in my truck?” “Sure, but feel free to bring it in. Everyone else does. Like Heinlein said.” Yup, the Free State! He’d made it. Just lucky.

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NANOWRIMO: Loser’s party!

Friday, December 2, 2011

http://www.hillarydepiano.com/2011/12/01/so-you-didnt-win-nanowrimo-this-year-you-should-still-be-proud-of-yourself-for-trying-even-if-you-fell-short/

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NANOWRIMO: I failed

Thursday, December 1, 2011

I was unable to complete the challenge.

No excuses, but I chose to work on other higher priorities.

Maybe next November.

Argh!

Feel bad, but that’s what happens when you say “yes” to quickly.

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WRITING: It’s always freezing in the field

Sunday, November 20, 2011

And it’s always freezing in the field

It’s always freezing in the field.
Thump, thump, thump …
Sight picture, trigger control, calmly breathe.
Thump, … thump, … thump, …
This is my rifle. … This is for fighting … Pray.
… thump, … … thump, … … thump, … … squeeze.

I am the boy / man who took to Massachusetts’ woods,
when the hated invader marched his red target
across the land of my birth,
to take our liberty and my manhood.

It’s always freezing in the field.
Thump, thump, thump …
Sight picture, trigger control, calmly breathe.
Thump, … thump, … thump, …
This is my rifle. … This is for fighting … Pray.
… thump, … … thump, … … thump, … … squeeze.

I am the boy / man dressed himself in blue or gray,
when the hated invader marched his gray / blue target
across the land of my birth,
to take our liberty and my manhood.

It’s always freezing in the field.
Thump, thump, thump …
Sight picture, trigger control, calmly breathe.
Thump, … thump, … thump, …
This is my rifle. … This is for fighting … Pray.
… thump, … … thump, … … thump, … … squeeze.

I am the old man who will take to America’s woods,
when the hated invader in the UN’s blue beret marches
across the land of my birth,
to take our liberty and my manhood.

It’s always freezing in the field.
Thump, thump, thump …
Sight picture, trigger control, calmly breathe.
Thump, … thump, … thump, …
This is my rifle. … This is for fighting … Pray.
… thump, … … thump, … … thump, … … squeeze.

Fair warning to all that it’ll be Chosin Reservoir cold,
when we all become those riflemen behind every blade of grass.
But we’ll be warmed by the long forgotten passion for liberty,
That has burned in all the riflemen before us.

It’s always freezing in the field.
Thump, thump, thump …
Sight picture, trigger control, calmly breathe.
Thump, … thump, … thump, …
This is my rifle. … This is for fighting.
… thump, … … thump, … … thump, … … squeeze.

Cold it will eternally be,
for the hated blue beret wearing enemy,
killed by all sorts of young and old men,
willingly passionately freezing in the field.

GBA!

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NANOWRIMO2011: Pep talk message

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Greetings, NaNo-novelist!

Have you seen the countdown clock on NaNoWriMo lately? The 2011 noveling extravaganza begins in just 13 days!

In preparation for this wild and wordy festival of writing, we’ve relaunched NaNoWriMo.org (and that very hypnotic clock). The site is now built upon the extra-sleek framework of Ruby on Rails, which means the forums are speedier than ever, and slow page-loads are a distant memory. (Though you can still fondly reminisce on those with me in the NaNoWriMo history.)

Come on over to NaNoWriMo.org today to check out all the shiny newness, including an all-star cast of pep talkers, the 2011 batch ofweb badges, our revamped forums, and special noveling goodies in the store.

You can also find the local chapter closest to you, and catch up on news and events there in the regional forum!

If nothing else, come by to witness the sheer speed of it all. Heavens to Betsy, the speed!

If you know any kids, teens, or educators who would enjoy this challenge, be sure to send them over to NaNoWriMo’s Young Writers Program! Director Chris Angotti has cooked up the best resources yet for our 50,000-plus young novelists around the world.

We can’t wait to see you in NaNoLand!

Counting down to go-time,
Lindsey Grant
Program Director

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Raring to go! U?

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WRITING: “Joan d’Arc — Third Vermont Republic”

Sunday, October 9, 2011

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joan_d_arc_3rd_VT-republic

Joan of Arc — Third Vermont Republic
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
(Redirected from Joan of arc)

For other uses, see Joan of Arc (disambiguation).

“Maid of Pownel” redirects here. For other uses, see Jeanne d’Arc (disambiguation).

Joan d’Arc

<<joan_d_arc_sketch1.jpg>>

Self portrait. As an artist, her interpretation of herself.

<<joan_d_arc_sketch2.jpg>>

The only other images of her were the United Nations / United States Federal Bureau of Investigation Most Wanted artist renditions from descriptions. (Centre Historique des Archives Nationales, Brussels, reference La Cour Pénale Internationale — docket number 20XX-0002 – USA / VT)

Born ~2001
New Jersey, USA
Disappeared 01 July 2025 (aged 24)
Pownel, Third Vermont Republic

Joan d’Arc, nicknamed “The Maid of Pownel” (also sometimes referred to as Dolly, or Madison, “No Last Name”, ~2001? – ????), is considered a national heroine of the Third Vermont Republic. A middle class girl born in New Jersey USA. Arrived as a refugee in Vermont during the economic collapse of the dollar sometime between 2014 and 2018. It is believed that she fought in her Uncle’s resistance unit. Assuming command after his death, she developed strategies and tactics which defeated the attempts to return Vermont to the USA after several States seceded. Despite UN involvement, and later total UN control, Vermont successfully resisted as did eventually all of the old USA. She “disappeared” into obscurity and all attempts to discover her real true identity are met with non-cooperation, hostility, and in some cases tar ‘n’ feathers. Some historians doubt the existence of a single individual and call her a composite of folk heros. Survivors of the various Expeditionary Forces into Vermont insist that she is a real single individual who late in the era took particular delight in “taking souvenirs” (i.e., chopping off fingers) and “dispatching returnees” (i.e., slitting throats). She was designated a “war criminal” in 2022 for these and other actions. She is still carried on various War Crimes lists and is actively being hunted. She disappeared from public view in 2025 at the end of hostilities. Since Vermont is not a member of the UN and has limited diplomatic relations, it’s unlikely for her ever to be brought to justice. Billing itself as the “Switzerland of North America”, Vermont has full diplomatic relations with only the Vatican, Switzerland, Israel, and the Free French Republic of Quebec. It is openly hostile to the United Nations and there is currently an active “Act of Marque and Reprisal for War Crimes” against all former, current, and future UN officials. In addition, that War Crimes act also names specifically certain past USA citizens as well as pseudonyms for certain “John Doe’s”.

Contents   

1 Background

2 Life

2.1 Rise

2.2 Leadership

2.3 Strategy

2.4 Tactics

2.5 Disappearance

3 Post-disappearance events

4 Lionization

5 Legacy

6 See also

7 Footnotes

8 References

9 Further reading

10 External links

1. Background

In 2014, the US Dollar aka the Greenback aka the Federal Reserve Banknote became worthless after President Obama was reelected with all sorts of claims of fraud. The result was a collapse of the global economy. The chaos in the world was bad; the affect in the USA was catastrophic. With the collapse, imports to the USA as well as foreign lending ended. The internal economy returned to a subsistence farming level mimicking the 1880s or the 1930s. While politically the USA was run from Washington DC, there was uncontrolled rioting and crime. Since ½ the country was on the dole and ¼ of the country was in “public service”, the remaining productive ¼ was supporting them. When the economy collapsed as a result of the dollar collapse, the productive class could no longer pay the taxes. Anyone with any wealth simply either was robbed or “disappeared”. It’s estimated that ⅓ of the population died in the rioting or the aftermath of the chaos. In 2015, Vermont seceded from the USA. Those in control of the government of the USA had accepted UN conservatorship as a result of that government’s debts to the world. Several States of the USA repudiated this action: Texas, Georgia, Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine, North Dakota, Montana, Idaho, Alaska, and Hawaii. In addition several States fractured, Washington, Oregon, California, Pennsylvania, Virginia, and Florida. Several also merged: New York, Connecticut, Rhode Island, New Jersey, and Maryland. As well as many of the boundaries changed as a result of the fighting over the next decade.

2. Life

Her birthplace is unknown. Her parentage or relatives are unknown. It’s believed that she escaped the riots in the Boston to DC corridor with her two younger brothers at age 14.

There is a colorful legend that has her parents dying in a home invasion where she killed the two intruders with a hidden shotgun that had been secretly given to her by her uncle. She then gathered up her brothers and, with her steering and the older brother operating the pedals, she drove from New Jersey to Vermont. Clearly impossible.

Supposedly they thrived at her uncle’s retreat. Riding out the chaos, until the attempted invasions of Vermont by armies of the USA, later the USA armies supplemented by the UN, and eventually just the UN. With a terrain akin to Afghanistan, the resistance movement was spawned by the attempt to “roll tanks into Vermont”. In retrospect, easier said that done.

2.1. Rise

In a 2016 Reuters report, an unnamed man, presumed to be Joan d’Arc’s uncle, was profiled as the leader of the Southeastern Vermont militia. Characterized as “a loon with delusions”, he was in command of irregular forces of “old men, crazy women, young girls, and children”. He’d fought the invaders to a stand still while never fighting an open pitched battle. His primary weapon was sabotage. It is believed that Joan d’Arc was one of these young girls. The report describes one young girl, believed to be her, pedaling her bicycle through the town of Pownel “trolling” for off duty troopers. When they would chase her, just to talk of course, she would lure them into ambushes where they were brutally murdered. This is all unconfirmed. What is confirmed was that casualty rates, in 2015 thru 2017, were a modest ½%. Combatants frequent gave surrendering troops quarter and parole. After 2018 thru 2020, casualty rates were a ⅓. From 2020 to 2023, they were ½. From 2023 until cessation in 2025, it was not uncommon that entire UN units were wiped out to the last man.

2.2 Leadership

In 2018, there was a massacre at Bennington Bridge. While many of the facts and interpretations are in dispute, there certain facts not in dispute. On 04 July 2018, the Government of the USA turned over all peace keeping operations to the United Nations. On 17 July 2018, a battle between UN peace keepers and Vermont irregulars occurred at Bennington Bridge. Unlike past battles, when the Vermont irregulars were defeated and surrendered, the UN general Muammar Gaddafi ordered the execution of all “arrestees”. Joan d’Arc’s uncle was believed to have been shot killing him along with her younger brother. It’s believed that she assumed command Southeastern Vermont militia. At around that time, they began to use the name Wolverines. The level of violence escalated dramatically after that. As a footnote, on 01 July 2019, General Gaddafi was abducted, killed, and his head was put on a pike at Bennington Bridge. That stayed there until it was taken down 01 July 2025 reportedly by Joan d’Arc personally.

2.3. Strategy

Early in the War for Vermont Independence, the strategy was to merely repel intruding armies. After Bennington Bridge, the strategy shifted to annihilating any armed intruder. Before, there was almost an intra-American civility with surrender and parole routinely granted, like a family fight; After, while there still was some surrender with parole for “Americans”, usually there was no quarter for the hated “blue hats” absent some notable UN courtesy to civilians, the wounded, or the dead (i.e., safe conduct to civilians; cease fire for retrieval of the wounded; honorable treatment of remains). After Bennington Bridge, parole was given only after non-surgical removal of the right pinky finger. Joan d’Arc was reported to have used an old native American tomahawk that her uncle had carried. If a parolee was captured again missing a right pinky finger, they immediately had their throat slit.

2.4 Tactics

Early in the conflict, some of the tactics had almost a humorous note to them. Joan d’Arc was reputed to have organized a “Gala Welcoming Ball by the Vermont Tory Woman’s Society” for the First Airborne Brigade deploying into Vermont. She captured all the officers and ½ the non-coms. Accepting parole, they were delivered naked to the US embassy in the Free State of Quebec. Every person, male and female, had a rude word tatted on their forehead and butt.

Later in the conflict, the tactics turned gruesome and even petty. Common decency precludes detailing them. Needless to say torture for information was routine. Torture, as a reprisal was de rigueur when the rules of war were violated.

In addition to the “right pinky finger” tactic, it was not uncommon for genitalia to be combined with dog tags and a blue hat to be staked on the border.

The western Vermont border was not the historical static dividing line. Vermont fought major pitched battles in New York east of the Hudson River. Skirmishes occurred as far west as the Thruway and the Northway. Eventually Vermont’s western border became the Hudson River and was codified in the Saratoga Springs Treaty. It was common knowledge that Seventh Vermont Regulars had to be recalled as a result of that treaty from the outskirts of Albany. There is no confirmation that Joan d’Arc was leading the Seventh and had “Buffalo or bust” chalked on all the equipment.

Similarly, the south Vermont border, with support of the sister republic of New Hampshire, by right of conflict, became the Atlantic Ocean. With the Treaty of Greenwich, Connecticut ceased to exist. Vermont followed the Hudson including the western part of Massachusetts to the Atlantic with New York City becoming part of Vermont; similarly New Hampshire followed the Rhode Island / Connecticut line though Massachusetts to the Atlantic. The old Interstate 91 became the VT / NH border and was renamed “Cooperation Road”. The western southbound side is in Vermont; the eastern northbound side is in New Hampshire. There are no border controls on this road. Massachusetts is essentially Boston and its suburbs. Rhode Island remains as it always was.

2.5 Disappearance

With Sarasota Springs treaty, Joan D’Arc simply “disappeared”. Many foreign news reporters, who were able to get visas, would find themselves “PNGed” (i.e., declared Persona Non Grata, deported, and if lucky not tarred ‘n’ feathered) for merely asking about her. Local news reporters carefully ignored identifying any Vermont Independence coflict leaders because of the outstanding International Criminal Court arrest warrants.

There was one report of Joan d’Arc responding to a question as to “where did she get her ideas on tactics and strategy”? She’s reported as saying: “As a young girl, I read my uncle’s writings extensively. Mostly Post Apocalyptical Fiction. While he was a very peaceful man, he had a vivid imagination and strong opinions about the future. While some of the ideas were grotesque, they had a certain logic about them. Some I stole directly like: maiming parolees to identify returnees, booby trapping common items, and employing fifth generation warfare against Vermont’s enemies. Others I developed from his themes: disguising one’s true intentions in conflicts, extending Vermont’s borders to the water’s edge, freezing the enemy in people’s minds like focusing on the hated blue hats, and never forgetting nor forgiving. He created a monster and his death, and that of my little brother, unleashed my full vengence. Hell hath no fury like a woman who is <past tense synonym for urine output> off!”

In Vermont politics, no one ever speaks of the conflict other than to mourn the dead and decry the suffering. No one speaks of anyone’s role in the “War for Independence”. The only distinction is that those who were in Vermont during the war are addressed a “comrade”; those who have come after are addressed as “citizen”.

Those individuals, who opposed Vermont Independence called Tories, typically didn’t survive the conflict. Those that did generally would not speak on the record for fear of “an act of marque and reprisal” by the Vermont Legislature. Anyone so “marqued” usually doesn’t survive very long. It’s an easy list to get on and one usually quickly falls off.

3. Post-disappearance events

It is believed that Joan D’Arc resumed her life as a simple young woman on her uncle’s retreat / farm. Her older brother is believed to have survived as well. There are some reports of her marrying and having at least six children. They are strong rumors that the children are named Mark, Maci, Mike, Madelyn, Mitch, and Evlynn. But this is unconfirmed by any records searched. No family with such names is believed to exist.

4 Lionization

Depending upon which side of the conflict that you’re on, her role is hotly disputed. From the Vermont side, she’s a patriot. From the USA / UN / World side, she’s gennocidal killer.

In the days after the peace was declared on 04 July 2025, a rock on private property was reported and photographed. In addition to lists of names and dates, it had the following dedication that can be read in the attached picture

<<<vermont_rock_joan_d_arc_farm.jpg>>>

*** begin quote ***

Comrades forever!

We may never see this place again. We may never survive our fight for Vermont. We may never get home, where ever that is to eventually be.

In time, this war, like every other war, will end. But we will never forget, and, in our dreams, we will come back to this place where it all began. Of safe good shelter. Of rest and refit. Of a base to strike out at the vipers who claim our souls. We’ll return often to it. If even only in our mind’s eye. To the safety of our comrades; to honor them in the common cause. Even when, or if, no one else ever does. Sad as that is, we’ll: Never forget. Never surrender. Never forgive.

In the early days of the war for Vermont’s independence, survivors, mostly children, placed their names, and the names of their lost upon this wall. They fought here alone; some gave up their lives. Some for us; some against us. No matter! They are ‘ours’. So that others could go on. They recorded their prayers so they’d not be lost.

We have made our mark. Each in our own way. Some had very short lives. Some suffered greatly; others passed quickly. No matter! Comrades in arms. Comrades in suffering. Comrades in the long cold sleep. If the writing fades, the deeds will speak for themselves! We have promised to each other: our fidelity, our lives, whatever meager fortune we gather, on our honor, to our comrades. Past, present, and in the future.

So say we all.

And, have inscribed our names as follows to this, our promise to each other, originally made on American Independence Day The First Day of July, Two Thousand Fifteen.

And, renewed today, on Vermont’s Independence Day The First Day of July, Two Thousand Twenty Five. The First day of our New Lives.

*** end quote ***

Since this rock is on private property, which is sacrosanct from trespass in Vermont, no further information, even its exact location, is available. All we have is the picture.

5. Legacy

At the four major entry points to the State, an intake building was built with a replica of the Statue of Liberty atop it. Suitable groups of refugees without sponsorship are organized into new clans to meet the sponsorship requirements. An Initiative named for Joan d’Arc will loan them the necessary funds to satisfy the entry requirements and provide sponsorship secured by liens on each individual.

“Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”

Their statue is now called “Joan d’Arc”.

<<<This article includes a list of references, related reading or external links, but its sources remain unclear because it lacks inline citations. Please improve this article by introducing more precise citations. (March 2028)>>>

6 See also

7 Footnotes

8 References

9 Further reading

10 External links

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This page was last modified on 23 September 2028 at 09:00 by Mario Ianiello Jr.

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