The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

     Sometimes my creative writing teacher pulls a few words out of the air and tells us to write a story that includes those words.  A while back she gave us this list -
 
     planet
     giraffes
     singing
     winter
     purple
     dictator

Here's my result:

         Life would never be the same.  The resistance had failed.  He had fought hard, but he was one small person against a mighty force.  He was subdued, just as all the rest were subdued – forced to submit to the barber, commanded into the showers, and dressed in the uniform of his oppressors.  Along with his peers, he was marched off to one of the prisons that the tyrant called an education center.  

     The center was one of the most miserable places on the planet.  The long, stark halls echoed with the footsteps of his fellow detainees.  The sentries, frightening beings as tall as giraffes, demanded absolute silence.  It seemed nothing escaped their vigilant eyes.  From time to time, they took someone to the overseer for disciplinary action.  These occasional examples had the desired effect of bringing the rank and file back to order.

     He and the other militants were divided into groups.  Hereafter, he would spend his days with his company.  Their instructor took them to a room, assigned places, and handed out supplies.  The lessons began and wore on all morning.  Just before the meal break, the instructor commanded them to sing.  How could his fellows comply so readily?  Surely they didn’t feel like singing these light-hearted songs.  He alone would remain true to his cause.  He would move his mouth, but no sound would escape.  He knew that learning their songs was part of the brainwashing.

     The mid-day break was part of their trickery, too.  A few minutes of free time followed an inadequate meal.  If he only had enough time to recruit some allies, maybe they could make an escape.  This had to be done quickly while the warm fall days lingered.  If he couldn’t get out before the coming winter, he would be stuck here until spring.  Today he would observe the others.  Tomorrow he would approach those he judged most likely to be his confederates.

     An afternoon of more drilling and propaganda followed.  At the end of the day the overseer opened the doors and all the inmates returned to their home bases.  Now the interrogations began.  He would say enough to satisfy the despot without saying anything at all.  His technique seemed to work.  The light faded.  Orange and purple skies turned to black night.  He was sleepy when he finally settled into his bunk.  The dictator stood in the doorway, watching her little subject.  He didn’t want to go back to school.  He refused a good night kiss.  Maybe tomorrow would be a better day. 

     To all current and former dictators, I hope this puts a smile on your face.