Canadians

• Shae Charlton, Grade 5
• Short Story
• 2018

The year is 2038, the last bottle of maple syrup has expired, the wold is in chaos. We now hunt for nearest substitute for our breakfast. Canadians, or rather, what runs in their veins. Friends turned on friends, brother turned on brother. It was a massacre.
The year is 2079. Canadians are now solely bred in factories. You may have very rarely stumbled across the lone Canadian in an abandoned town, or riding a moose, but illegal hunters have practically reduced their species to a mere few. A few good Samaritans decided enough was enough, and a huge protest was held in favour for the poor Canadians. I do believe some were actually in zoos for a while. Of course poachers hunted them again, and our need for maple syrup out won the need for good human nature. So now, Canadians are bred in factories. Huge monsters that ate the sky. People say you could hear people inside screaming…. Wait. Not people. Food. People say you could hear our… food… inside screaming. England was bad, with patrols and hunting parties being sent out every evening. But America… oh America was far, far worse. Being situated next to Canada, the Americans had a clear path to maple syrup. They knocked down churches, bombed the cities, they murdered the president on live TV. And there was nothing the Canadians could do to stop it. But there were other countries, France, Saudi Arabia, Australia, they just stood around doing nothing. Sure, they wouldn’t pass up a golden opportunity for free maple syrup, but they didn’t invade and pillage either. Maple syrup cost about as much as a small house, or you could trade a Canadian for a bottle. Life was tough, but it sure was tougher for those in the factories.

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It is my turn to die. As my arms are chained, and my tears start running down my face, I knew I would die, but never like this. Not chained to the ground like an animal. They expected me to beg, others around me were begging, but I would never let these monsters win. These pathetic excuses for humans. We were marched through chamber after chamber, and after a while you could smell the sickly-sweet smell of blood… Canadian blood. Death was fast approaching, and the others had accepted it. But not I. I remember my home, when the sun would hit the grass at the perfect angle, and light would splay across the water. I can still smell the spring, and sometimes, in the middle of the night when the guards thought you were asleep, you can smell the rain coming. I have a family, I have friends, who will be waiting for me, not accepting I am gone. So I held my head high, and let a mask fall across my face, I look tired, bored perhaps. And with a picture of my home stuck firmly in my mind, I smiled, because I would be seeing it again shortly.