The Fifth of November

“O. M. G. Why does everyone keep telling me to remember the fifth of November?” Mina said.

Sergio sighed. “I dunno, something about the British blowing stuff up, I guess.”

“Well what does that matter? I’m not British!”

“I know. No one is. Except, like, Charles over there in the corner, and he’s always been kind of weird.”

“Yeah, so why should we all have to remember stuff because Charles has a dumb accent?”

“I don’t know, Mina. I don’t. Know.”

Mina harrumphed, then looked down at the blank sheet of paper in front of her. “What are we even doing, anyway?”

Sergio was busy drawing around the margins of his own paper. “I dunno, writing something or some crap.”

“Like, anything?”

“Yeah, creative thing or something like that, I wasn’t listening.”

“Serg, you’re supposed to be the one who listens, I can’t do everything.”

“Well, maybe you should do something, I’m busy here.”

Mina sighed, then started writing. Ten minutes later, the teacher collected everyone’s stories; Sergio’s was more of a visual telling, and when the teacher asked, he shrugged. “That’s like, a thousand words, right? You said at least two hundred.”

The teacher rolled his eyes, then collected Mina’s. He glanced down as he walked and saw the title, Ode to Britain, followed by a four stanza poem:

“Britain is dumb,

Britain is dumb,

W.T. F?

Britain is dum.”

He considered saying something, or at least pointing out the misspelling. He shook his head, then walked on. Some battles, he thought, are not worth fighting.

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