Rebirth of a Nation

Posted: January 9, 2014 in Flash Fiction, Horror

The museum was built shortly after the beginning of the War Between States. Rebels from Virginia were within striking distance of the capitol and the sacred relics it contained, so Philadelphia, City of Brotherly Love, was chosen to safeguard them. Under cover of night the workers emptied the District of Columbia of its treasures, returning them to the city that had first served as the Union’s capitol. A wagon train richer and more terrible than any caravan to ever ply the Silk Road snaked away into the darkness never to return. Even after the Robert E. Lee surrendered it was deemed best to leave the relics in their new resting place. Dread things such as those which had created our great nation were best handled none too often, left to their lightless boxes and sealed rooms far below the earth. For this was a secret museum, barred to the public and all but those highest in the echelons of power.

The Curator held the key from Benjamin Franklin’s kite in his hand, that lump of metal which had first captured the lightning. With it he opened the moldering chest and exposed the secrets it contained, one piled atop another, an embarrassing wealth of forbidden riches. There was the true constitution, signed by thirteen men in blood, beneath a most gruesome paperweight, General Washington’s other teeth. These were not the wooden dentures of popular myth, but those mandibles which put the first lie to his honest lips, ivory fangs harvested from the mouths of wolves and bears, stained with the blood of his enemies. There were plans for the capitol that was never built and the original unexpurgated copy of the Jefferson Bible. It was all there, the bizarre and potent mixture from which a nation had been brewed. The Curator smiled, unwilling to close the aged chest, the first of thirteen. These things were terrible, twisted, each one at odds with every history book in every school on the surface above, buy they were precious – – and they were needed.

The tree of liberty was old and rotted from within, a dying oak. Once more, blood was needed to refresh it, to make it green with life. The only question remaining was one of taste. What would the Curator call this undiscovered country he was soon to recreate?


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