the limits of our eras: james monroe #5 (1817-1825)

by Wesley R. Bishop

The glaciers cracked and bled. Ice clashed with rock, and the Federalists vanished. In the warm light of the new epoch, an Era of Good Feelings unfurled: one party, one voice, not everyone invited. “Hot damn,” Uncle Sam cooed, rocking gently, sipping sweet tea on the porch. Monroe rocked beside him, biting his thumb.  “Will it last?” he asked. “What?” “The peace. This... compromise.” They couldn’t see the future— not from their screened-in porches overlooking acres of ghosts. Monroe squinted at the horizon. “What’s that?” Uncle Sam said nothing. Monroe turned to him— but the old man was gone. Only a bearded skeleton remained, teeth bleached white, laughing that hollow kind of laugh you only hear when something’s too sad to cry over. Thunder rolled in from the fields.

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