Whispers of Rebellion: Tales from Elmsworth

A short story about living under fascism

Coauthored & Edited by Mighty.Beautiful Art Studio
Generated with the aid of chatGPT / Midjourney

America, 2026. In the small city of Elmsworth, once a lively haven of vibrant communities and spirited discussions, a palpable hush had settled. The Totalitarian Alliance, a regime that thrived on control and had extinguished freedom like a smothered flame only a year ago, had secured its oppressive shadow over the once-thriving community.

Mia, whose dreams had once mirrored the kaleidoscope of Elmsworth's diversity, now navigated the narrow pathways of survival under the watchful gaze of the authorities. Elmsworth’s downtown, once a bustling hub where local shops peddled their craft goods with live music and First Friday festivals, had been transformed into a controlled space where citizens exchanged cautious whispers and furtive glances.

The regime's enforcers, clad in stern uniforms that mirrored the somber atmosphere, patrolled the streets day and night. The air itself was felt thick with apprehension, and the vibrant colors that had once adorned the town now yielded to a monochromatic palette of conformity.

At the heart of Elmsworth stood the old City Hall, now the Great One Building, a colossal structure housing the emblem of the Totalitarian Alliance. Once a symbol of civic pride and unity, it now loomed as an imposing testament to oppression. Mia recalled a time when the city had hosted joyous celebrations and community events. Now, its towering facade cast a perpetual shadow over the town, and the only community events were parades celebrating the Great One, the one who had stolen America’s democracy with his army of brain-washed cult followers.

The arts scene, once a vibrant expression of Elmsworth's soul, had been stifled. Local artists, who had once adorned the town with murals depicting its essence, now found their creativity deemed subversive and demonic. Mia, who harbored a passion for painting, concealed her art in the hidden corners of her small apartment, a silent act of rebellion against the regime's restrictions.

Daily life in Elmsworth had devolved into an orchestrated routine. Citizens moved about in predetermined patterns, avoiding eye contact and refraining from any form of dissent. The Christian Nationalists propaganda echoed through omnipresent loudspeakers, in the newspapers and on the radio and in social media, praising conformity and condemning individualism as a threat to the collective order.

Communication became a perilous endeavor, monitored and scrutinized. Suspicion lurked around every corner, and even neighbors, once friendly, stopped engaging in meaningful conversations for fear of being reported. The sense of community, once the heartbeat of Elmsworth, had withered, replaced by a prevailing sense of isolation.

Mia often found herself yearning for the lively debates, shared laughter and music that had once echoed through the city’s bars and cafes. Those communal spaces had been replaced by sterile establishments where conversations were limited to approved topics, and dissenting voices were swiftly silenced, some times by weeks or months in jail.

Yet, even in the stifling atmosphere, a flicker of resistance persisted. Underground networks of individuals quietly exchanged information, sharing stories of the world beyond Elmsworth's borders that Mia had once — not that long ago — completely taken for granted. Without the protections of the First Amendment, truthful news was almost impossible to come by. Almost everything shared and allowed in official or public channels was propaganda, lies intended to confuse and disorganize the masses and get people to conform to the New Christian Order.

As the oppressive government tightened its grip, Mia and others like her clung to the hope that life would go back to the old normal, but it never did. The spark of rebellion, nurtured in secret corners, dared to dream of a day when Elmsworth could reclaim its vibrancy, when the arts could flourish, and the voices of its citizens would once again be heard — but they never were. They were suppressed at every turn. They called it “safety.”

In the subdued twilight of Elmsworth, Mia clung to her paintings. To her, they told a silent tale of resilience—a story waiting to be discovered when the oppressive shadows finally receded. The paintings showed that the spirit of freedom, though suppressed, endured in the hearts of those who yearned for a brighter tomorrow, where the colors of individual expression would paint the canvas of their shared destiny. In Mia’s mind, each stroke of the brush became a small act of rebellion against a government that now sought to control what she thought, what she believed, what she could do, what she could learn. A government

Mia had quickly learned how to protect herself from the new regime and its army of officers as best she could. She wore boring clothes, covered her face with scarves, and was practiced at melting into a crowd seamlessly. She stayed quiet, gave the smallest of smiles when passing the soldiers, stopped posting on social media, was always quiet, always said ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ when someone stopped her to ask her questions.

Still, she had a few friends from Before, friends who she knew she could trust. Before, they would go out to bars, flirt with guys, dance to live music. But now there were curfews, and the life had been sucked out of everything. Strangers could absolutely not be trusted. She and her friends met only secretly and occassionally, communicating by code and looking out for each other as they committed small acts of seemingly miniscule resistance: graffiti along the Great One building, promptly removed; news flyers, discarded in puddles of rain; a pile of used banned books left on a playground; baked donuts with “save the girls” written in frosting.

At the time, resistance had seemed like a good idea, something that made Mia feel less hopeless and more alive. But they must have messed up somewhere at some point and time.

One night, there was a loud knock on Mia’s door. Three soldiers with machine guns stood outside her door, holding a surveillance photo of a figure spray painting FASCISTS onto a building, but Mia knew it wasn’t of her. The figure was way too tall and skinny. “Mia Winton? We have a warrant for search and seizure of your property,” one of the soldiers pushed a paper into Mia’s hands as the second entered her apartment and the third began cuffing her hands together. “You are under arrest for suspicion of property destruction and government defamation.”

Mia opened her mouth to argue.

“But I haven’t done anything!” she protested.

“Stand by the wall and shut up,” the soldier said. “Everything you say can and will be used against you.”

For an hour Mia stood by the wall, watching as the soldiers tagged and collected all her paintings as evidence against her. When she cried out after one of the soldiers ripped one of the paintings in half, the third soldier whipped his gun across her shoulders.

”I said Shut Up,” he said, pressing his body into hers, pushing her into the wall. “You have the right to remain silent, not the right to speak.”