In this satirical short story set in the not-so-distant future, America is divided not by borders, but by beliefs. When AI replaces jobs and humans are left with only opinions, FaceFight (the physical version of Facebook) becomes the arena. But in the midst of chaos, mysterious figures called the Lumae quietly reflect something deeper: empathy.

This is Blocked and Divided: The Civil Woe of Future America, a dystopian comedy by Desiree Clemons.

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Blocked & Divided: A Civil Woe Story

Dreamed Up & Delivered by: Desiree Clemons

Setting: Future America, where AI has taken over most jobs. Humans are bored and full of opinions. Facebook is now a physical battleground called “FaceFight.”

Once Upon A Meme… (Introduction)

Some time in the future, the United States experienced spiritual constipation.

People couldn’t poop out their pain any more, so they threw it at each other in meme form.

Somewhere between a “Don’t Tread On Me” bumper sticker and a TikTok about ethical polyamory, the Great American Divide finally split the nation—not by bombs, but by vibes.

Part I: The Great Divide

Long after the Industrial Age and just before the Age of Inwardness, machines and AI took over most jobs, leaving humans with only one thing—themselves.

And that was a terrifying predicament for many.

Without deadlines or alarms, they turned to posting—rage-posting, enlightened-posting, and passive-aggressive recipe-posting???

Soon, each state began to swell with sameness.

The East grew leafy and sensitive.

The South went pew-pew and patriotic.

The Middle, well they just wanted peace and cheaper rent.

And so the people began to migrate, not for weather or work, but for ideology.

Part II: The State Commercials

One by one, the states started airing commercials:

“Welcome to Texahoma! Where opinions are sacred, meat is mandatory, and nobody asks what pronouns are!”

“Visit New Euphoria! A gentle, carbon-neutral commune with eye contact, consent workshops, and trauma-informed zoning laws!”

Families packed their values in moving trucks.

Friends unfriended each other.

Dogs howled across fences.

Yet, no one asked what the consequences might be… until it was too late.

Part III: The Lumae Appear

Long before the first spark of chaos lit the sky, quiet figures, called Lumae’s, appeared in strange places. They were seen at the edges of protests, in libraries no one used, and beneath moonlit trees where no one had prayed in years.

No one knew where they came from. They didn’t vote. They didn’t fight. They didn’t even argue online.

They simply walked from state to state, gathering stories, making strange art, and holding up mirrors—literal and metaphorical.

The Lumae didn’t say much. But their presence caused reflection.

Which is the first step to empathy.

Which is the last step anyone ever wants to take.

Part III½: The Pew-Pew War Begins

It didn’t happen all at once.

First came The Unfriending, then neighbors stopped waving at each other and started fact-checking each other’s yard signs.

Then came The Great Migration, when entire families packed up their feelings and fled to states that better reflected their personal algorithms.

Red states grew redder.

Blue states grew bluer.

Middle states grew anxious and invested in canned beans and powdered milk.

At first, it looked silly.

Memes turned into mandates.

Hashtags turned into hover drones.

And just like that, the Pew-Pew War began.

It wasn’t nuclear (no one wanted to ruin the Wi-Fi).

But it was brutal.

• Some fired emotion grenades that shattered communities.
• Others dropped truth bombs so biased they bent physics.
• And then came the laser rifles—yes, actual ones—engineered by retired influencers and powered by outrage.

The sound of these weapons?

Not BOOMS.

Not BANGS.

Just… “pew-pew.”

Hence the name:

The Pew-Pew War.

Ridiculous.

Devastating.

Totally American.

And while the states burned, bunkered, and live-streamed their destruction, the Lumae quietly got to work.

Part IV: Elixirs, Towers, and Maps

As the Pew-Pew War raged on, the Lumae moved quietly across America, each on a strange little mission.

One Lumae—shimmering in the moonlight—began brewing something in the Middle of a broken town square.

There, they stirred a cauldron filled with laughter, faded memories, second chances, and a few anonymous apologies.

“What are you making?” asked a suspicious teen in a camo vest.

An Empathy Elixir,” the Lumae replied.

“To help people feel something other than superiority.”

The teen made a face. “Gross,” they muttered, then walked off to post about it.

Another Lumae collected and stacked discarded satellite dishes into a massive spiraling tower.

“What are you building?” asked a smug pundit with ten million followers and zero self-awareness.

“I’m building a signal,” she said. “To help people hear each other.”

“Why would I want to hear them?”

“To remember you’re not the only one here. Can you help?

“No,” he scoffed. “That’s not on-brand.“

Then he blocked her and updated his bio to ‘#Empath 💖.’

And far away, where the earth cracked from too many boots marching in too many directions, a third Lumae stitched together dreams whispered by children, elders, exhausted parents, and poets.

It became a Dream Map—a glowing, living scroll showing what could be if people listened, collaborated, or paused before reacting.

But no one wanted a maybe. They wanted a winner.

So, the Elixir sat unfinished.

The tower blinked in silence.

The Map curled in the wind.

Until the skies cracked open.

Part V: When God Came Down (and everyone had notes)

Just when chaos reached an all-time high, memes morphed into mobs, comment sections became war zones, and someone tried to build a wall between Whole Foods and Bass Pro Shops, the clouds above tore open like a wet paper bag.

God descended.

But not everyone agreed it was God.

To some, God looked like Beyoncé with wings.

To others, a bald eagle wrapped in scripture.

To a few, just a cloud-wearing Crocs.

Regardless, God was not amused.

As God hovered above the Elixir, the Signal Tower, and the Map,

They looked down with the face of every grandmother who’s ever sighed, “Mmm. You know better than this.”

“Blue Cloaks,” said God, voice like thunder steeped in sleepytime tea,

“You turned compassion into competition.”

“Red Hats,” God continued,

“You shouted about tradition while throwing tantrums like toddlers with nap access.”

“Middle folk,” God sighed,

“You sat on the fence so long… it became a podcast.”

Then God pointed to an influencer livestreaming from the chaos:

“And you— put the phone down before I smite your Wi-Fi.”

The crowd froze. Silent.

Unsure if they’d just been insulted, enlightened…

or gently roasted by the Divine.

Then, one brave soul raised their hand.

“Uh, respectfully… that’s not my God.”

A wave of murmurs followed:

“Mine would never say that.”

“Mine has better hair.“

“Mine votes.”

God blinked. Blinked again. Then slowly reached into their robe and pulled out a glittery clipboard.

“Fine,” God said. “Let’s try this again. Who exactly is in charge here?“

No one answered.

Then, from the back, a Lumae giggled.

Part VI: The Turning (with God’s exit)

A small child wandered up to the bubbling cauldron where the Empathy Elixir sat, still unfinished. She dropped in a torn drawing of her family, split across state lines.

The cauldron hissed.

Then, a janitor climbed the Signal Tower and plugged in his dusty Walkman. It played an old love song that reminded everyone they’d once believed in something soft.

Then a survivor, unseen since the first sparks of chaos, whispered their dream into the Dream Map, and the Map lit up like dawn.

And as the light spilled across the sky, God blinked.

Slowly. Once. Twice.

Their clipboard dissolved into stardust.

Their robes unraveled into rays of color.

Their presence stretched upward like smoke from a candle, shifting between laughter, weeping, and… lo-fi beats?

Some said God ascended.

Some said They became the Wi-Fi signal the world actually needed.

Others claim They were just done, like a parent walking out of a PTA meeting that got way too weird.

But whatever the truth, God was gone. And nobody knew if they would return. Or if they even cared.

When God vanished, the ones who mocked the Lumae, dismissed the Elixir, unplugged the Signal Tower, and vandalized the Dream Map began to fade.

First, from conversations.

Then from memory.

And finally, from the world itself.

No explosions. No plagues. Just a soft unweaving—like a thread pulled loose from the hem of the human tapestry.

You’d look around and say,

“Wasn’t there someone with a phone and a following who used to sit here and shout all the time?“

And someone else would say, “Who?”

And no one would remember.

Part VIII: Moral, Maybe

See, the Lumae didn’t fix the world.

They didn’t lead. They didn’t conquer. They didn’t see sides.

They just wandered on, gathering more bits of humanity like breadcrumbs on a trail of healing.

But those who knew them-those who felt them—changed.

Some only a little. Some forever. Some just enough to stop reposting hate and rage for the day.

And those who refused? Who chose pride over peace, spectacle over sincerity?

They weren’t punished.

They were simply… silenced.

-END

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