Diary entry, June 23, 2019, or TrumpYear 2.124.1
By Joseph Everett, Concerned Canadian
It has been roughly two years since the Great Downfall, though it is only ever called that in hushed voices among trustworthy friends.
Donald Trump rose to power at the head of the strongest nations in the world after a devastating victory over Hillary Clinton, and since then the world has been crumbling.
Many Americans fled the nation, crossing their northern border to the sanctuary of Canada. Ma and Pa took a few in every now and then, fed them, let them shower before they continued on their way, ever northward, away from their lost country. Their forgotten dreams.
Pa and Ma have been fighting again. They say we should go as well. I ask them where but they just look at me, sadness filling their once shining eyes.
The television says that Trump has been joking about running for election in Canada. Ma says that it is impossible, but we have seen firsthand the impossibilities that have come from Trump’s joking.
We live near the border, and our nights are filled with the sounds of helicopters flying by, hammers on steel as the new wall is erected, a smaller cousin to the one that Trump had been building during the first year of his reign. The one across the Mexican border was built to keep people out, the one up here is meant to keep them in.
To leave by boat or plane is folly as well, or Trump has ordered that any unauthorized transport be shot down or sunk, and it is said that if you do make it far enough, the United Nations have set up blockades in both the sea and the sky.
No word has been heard from any countries across the oceans, as a firewall has been put up on the Internet to act as its own wall, shielding those outside of it from the madness kept within.
Unfortunately for Canada, we were seen as America’s closest allies, and the electronic Trump quarantine has been placed over us as well. Pa says not to worry, that the good man Justin is doing all he can to convince the world that while we live above Trump’s America, we do not stand beside him. But it is rumoured that he has been greeted only by silence.
The other night, some refugees came by my school. One seemed to have been driven to insanity, the other holding him away from the children.
“Run!” he had yelled, to no one in particular. They went along their way, heads down, feet plodding ever forward. From his ramblings I gathered that they were heading to Alaska, and then, presumably, Russia.
The last escape from a Trump-torn world.
The Bering Strait.
