Tell A Tale in 500 Words

The Mission By Margaret Christopoulos

Change the world. That’s what I’ll do – in 50 days.

“It’s a good time to settle your affairs, tidy up loose ends, make peace with everyone in the dysfunctional family.” They know where they can take their advice.

“Ensure a legacy for the grandchildren.” Bugger them. They’ve all tried to suck me dry. Making my mark is the only important thing. Burnt bras, peace camps, anti war marches, food banks – I’ve done them all in triplicate. And more. Nothing to show for any of them, not captured by police nor cameras. I’ve been an utter failure.

Now’s my chance. Been planning in earnest since I left hospital last week. “I don’t want your help. I’ll find a carer, I’ll sort that out myself.” I binned the leaflet they gave me about hospices.

Yesterday I blew half my savings to pay Henri, my friendly hacker. This morning I went to Harrods and chose an outfit, the Queen has nothing on me.

One thing I’ve always been good at is creative writing. Using quotations from Shakespeare, Emily Bronte, Ed McBain. I typed my manifesto –‘ Polly’s Polemic’. I won’t let anyone escape. I’m also smart at desktop publishing and I’ve churned out loads and loads of them. Cost me a small fortune in printing inks and paper. Pretty knackered I was at the weekend when I finished. Henri’s taken them. He’s got a friend who’s a helicopter pilot who’s going to scatter them all over London on my birthday, 5.00pm.

I’m now preparing a script. It will be sent from my computer. Henri will do it. He’s going to send it to everyone who counts: the Queen, all the MPS, everyone in my address book, all the news outlets and some others too. 5.00pm on my 74th. I’m writing this just in case something doesn’t work. Nobody’s getting away with anything.

It’ll be Wednesday. Those miserable medics. Gave me 12 weeks. I suppose they might be right - forced me get all the preparations done. Focused my mind. I won’t bother opening my birthday cards. Dressed like royalty I’ll deliver leaflets to 3 churches around here and then get a taxi to Westminster Abbey. I’ll get through the entry barrier, no problems. I’ll find a seat near enough to the front, a place I spotted on my practice run.

They’ve got to listen. We have stolen their futures. Our lost generation, Y, Millennials, whatever they call them. Massive debts, poor housing, no pensions, rubbish jobs. They massively voted to stay in Europe and some old fogies have trapped them, here, in poverty. About time they read about my ideas – bring back free education, votes for 16 year olds, cut pensions and freebies for the likes of me.

I’ll watch the clock, when it’s 5.00 I’ll light the fuse. I’ll throw my leaflets out before the fire takes hold. Spectacular. Polly the new Guy Fawkes.


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