Dystopian fiction

A Convenient Plague

The sickness came fast and terrifying—at least, that’s what the broadcasts claimed. The Department of Health issued urgent warnings. Fever, coughing fits, rashes that spread overnight. No one knew where it had started, but suddenly it was everywhere. Sanctuary cities were the most affected. Migrant populations were the hardest hit. Dissenters were dying at ten times the normal rate. Yet the Chairman’s inner circle, the elite of the Black Circle, suffered no losses.

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A Spark of Light

In an act of pure defiance, televisions at HUD’s central office in Washington, D.C., were hijacked, broadcasting an AI-generated nightmare for the regime. The Chairman, on his knees, worshiping Vail’s feet, a grotesque display of submission, looped endlessly while bewildered staff scrambled to shut it down. Above it, emblazoned in bright letters: LONG LIVE THE REAL KING.

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Controlling the Truth

The Ministry of Truth was born in plain sight. It started with a simple announcement—the Chairman’s administration would handpick which media outlets could participate in the presidential press pool. They called it “restoring power to the American people,” but in reality, it was a purge. Critics were silenced, dissenting voices erased. What remained was a hollowed-out press corps, filled with loyalists repeating scripted lines. The illusion of journalism persisted, but the truth had been excised.

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The Reluctant Witness

Cora’s thumb hovered over the screen as the strange, grainy animation played out before her. A faceless figure in black and white tilted its head, its voice a distorted whisper. “Are you awake?” The words sent a chill down her spine. The cartoon was crude, almost childlike, but the message was razor-sharp. It mocked the Circle’s slogans, exposed the hypocrisy of their leaders, and left behind a lingering question: Do you really exist? I do because I am awake.

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The American Dream

The truth was never hidden, just ignored. America was never a land of equal opportunity, never a fair fight. It was built on extraction, on stolen land, on exploited labor. The so-called Founding Fathers were not visionaries—they were profiteers, carving up a continent for themselves and their heirs, writing laws that would ensure power never left their bloodlines. The dream they sold was a lie, but an easy one, easier than the hard truth that the system was never meant to work for the people.

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