At last the election slumps into a coffin. The smoke scatters. Sirens that had spent their strength screaming rest.

Joseph comes down to a street of bulleted concrete, graffiti, strewn ballots, bodies. His lip carries teeth marks and blood.

He walks to the train station. Children, women, and men huddle with confused faces.

Joseph finds his son in a corner and holds him close. A woman approaches.

“You are Joseph,” she says. It should have been a question.

She joins Joseph and his son. They step outside. Cleanup crews are loading trucks. The flatbeds thump. The flies follow.

Joseph, his son, and the woman find a church. The door is open. They enter the vestibule. Joseph calls out We are here, and an echo mumbles.

Roman rises from the sanctuary where he had kneeled, wiping his eyes. He steps forward. “You are Joseph,” he says. It should have been a question.

“Can you help him?” asks Joseph. He nods toward his son.

“I am not who you think,” says Roman.

Joseph, his son, and the woman go back outside. They walk to the stronghold of the Commander. “You are Joseph,” says the Commander.

They pass inside. The Commander sits. The others stand.

“An ugly rebellion,” says the Commander.

“Not a rebellion,” says Joseph. “A fight for truth.”

The Commander shakes his head. “Your truth lost, Joseph.”

Soldiers enter, escort Joseph, his son, and the woman outside, return to their posts.

Joseph holds his son, puts his arm around the woman. “And now?” he asks her.

“You will be punished. We all will be.”

“And my son?”

The woman doesn’t answer. The street holds only questions. Joseph looks up to the sky and trembles.

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Dynamic Creed

The Final Father of Democracy