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PROTECT THE POET
Protecting the Poet is not just a personal choice for me.
As a member of the Secret Service, I follow the orders of my President.
When we were first attacked by the Enemy, his order was "save your family, then save yourself."
He was my family, so I did as he asked: I saved him.
I dragged him through passageways deep under the White House to a waiting car and escorted him to Dulles.
His last order to me as he boarded Air Force Three was "Protect the Poet."
Just that. Protect him. Protect the poet.
The hatch closed, and the plane took off leaving me on the tarmac with my coat flapping in the backwash.
I protect the poet, but who protects me?
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The poet was world-renowned. Before the War, his poetry was taught in every school.
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Thousands came to his public readings.
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Millions bought his voice recordings and ebooks.
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The Poet's last radio broadcast (from an undisclosed location during the Invasion)

credit: poetry.gov
Now the Poet is in hiding, and his poems are read by candlelight in fallen and captured cities.
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The President is in Mexico.
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Those members of Congress who have not been killed are in secret underground shelters.
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They only reveal themselves to lay blame for our predicament on "tides of ignorance" and "literary unrest."
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No one knows how or why, but the internet is not functioning.
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Our phones, radios, and radar are dead.
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Scientists have been consulted, but they can do nothing.
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Now all our communications are by word of mouth, semaphore, or print.
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Scratch to see the Poet's pad
The other day, the Poet spoke to me. This is a rare occurrence—usually, he barely acknowledges my presence because he is so absorbed in his work.
I don't blame him. It is important work, and his absorption is required.
"Do you think we will be saved?" he asked me.
I blinked, and on reflex scanned the horizon for enemy drones.
My pistol felt heavy at my side.
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"Saved, sir?"
"Yes. Will humanity survive?"
"I couldn't say, sir. We're not down yet, and we're fighting back."
My answer seemed to please him, and he jotted a few words on his note pad.
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Always the pencil now, ever since we lost the typewriter.
"Is the enemy too strong for us?"
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My eyes traversed the horizon. I rarely talk when I am working. It puts me off my game.
"Not stronger," I finally answered. "Better prepared. They caught us with our guard down. It won't happen again."
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From my mouth to his pad. It was wonderful to watch. We had all lost so much--family, homes, friends--but through him, our words endured.
He kept our memories alive.
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The Poet had a close call today. Using their drones, the Enemy found our hide-away.
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We have no idea how they did this.
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Our tethered balloons took out the first three drones. The next three came in low, and we peppered them with small arms fire.
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Two drones went down, but the third slipped through our defenses and took out the printing HQ.
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Seven of our people died, two of them typesetters. I only survived because I was off base taking a walk with the Poet.
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Protect the poet, the President said.
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That is what I did. I protected him.
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But we lost many friends today.
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IN MEMORIAM
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"Is it worth it?" asked the Poet that evening.
The camp was quiet as we settled in for the night.
"To lose so many for just one man?"
He wiped the lipstick off his lips and peered into the small mirror hanging on the flap of his tent. A candle guttered on a nearby crate.
"It's not a matter of choice," I replied. "It's our duty. Our duty comes first."
"Before sorrow? Before pain?"
He glanced at me with his lips a crimson gash in the candlelight.
"That's what we've been trained to do. We don't know anything else."
"Cogito ergo sum," he said. "Think before you are."
I am overwhelmed with pride. The Poet, the last and greatest of his kind, gave me a poetry lesson!
We sat on the crate in his tent as he showed me his pad and pencil. "The tools of our trade," he called them.
He put the pencil in my left hand (yes, I am left-handed) and guided my hand across the pad.
"Write what you feel," he said. "Don't edit, just write."
So I wrote.
I wrote about the war, and how many had died.
I wrote about the sirens wailing night and day in the first few weeks...
and then silence.
I wrote about the enemy and how we did not know where they were from, but survivors said they looked just like us.
I wrote about the President and my love for my country.
I wrote about my parents and how they died in the first attacks, their bodies lost in the smouldering ruins of their town.
I wrote about the civil unrest, the stock market crash, and reports of the Enemy from other countries around the world.
I wrote about the strange dancing lights in the night sky, the yellow fog at dawn, the smell of sulphur seeping from the ground under our feet.
I wrote about the pestilence and strange diseases:
the men growing a sixth toe on their right foot
the women turning into hermaphrodites
the children losing their power of speech...
I wrote about it all.
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Scratch to see my Notepad

I am in love with the Poet.
Not a homosexual love, although that may come, but a spiritual love beyond the flesh.
I love his words. I love how he writes them down with his pursed lips and his nervous tug on his pony tail.
I love his raspy snores at night.
I love the scratchscratchscratch of his pencil on the pad.
My love is what makes me so afraid.
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It was against protocol, and a risky choice, but the Poet was cold that night, so I built a campfire.
We were deep in the woods, well away from the Enemy, so we were safe.
We sat by the fire and tried to forget our losses.
But the more we tried to forget, the more we remembered.
"You know why they're after me?" the Poet asked after a while.
"You're the Poet," I said. "If they get you, they get us."
"That's a result, not a reason," he said.
"Resistance?" I asked.
A twig snapped in the woods, and quietly, not to alarm the Poet, I pulled my pistol.
"Yes, resistance. Tanks and planes can be destroyed. Cities can be burned. Governments can be toppled. But ideas live in the mind. Poetry is an aesthetic of the mind, and the mind can not be resisted."
Another twig snapped, and a fawn ventured into the firelight. It pawed the ground and eyed us warily. Then it faded into the darkness.
I put my pistol away.
"I get it," I said. "Poetry is resistance. Words are weapons."
"Preserve the species, my friend," the Poet said.
He smiled at me, and in the glow of his smile, everything was forgotten.
Later on, we lay by the fire and spooned for warmth.
He fell asleep in my arms, his breath soft and raspy against my cheek.
His chest rose and fell in rhythm with the beating of my heart.
The final attack came at dawn.
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It was a guided missile this time.
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Just one.
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It fell into the center of our small camp, heat seeking the smouldering remains of our campfire.
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The explosion blasted me off the tree stump where I was cleaning my firearm.
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I fell bruised and deafened into the underbrush. I was blinded by the smoke and flying embers, and my clothing was on fire.
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I was dazed for a few seconds and then rose unsteadily to my feet.
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As if they belonged to someone else, I saw my hands reach up and pat the flames out on my arms.
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Then I looked for the Poet, but it was too late.
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He had been in his sleeping bag near the fire precisely where the missile hit.
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I searched for hours, combing the area for his remains, but found nothing.
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He had been completely incinerated. Even his sleeping bag was gone.
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I had failed. The war was lost.
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The Poet was dead, and there was nothing left but my revenge.
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I ran blindly into the woods.
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I cried as I ran, deep gulping cries of anger and shame.
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In my pocket, the pad and pencil lay heavy as a broken promise.
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