Burnt Ledgers
A fairytale of gold and the power of solidarity.
Once upon a time, in a kingdom not far,
Where taxes were tall and hope didn’t stretch far,
Each villager lived with a debt on their back,
And the more that they paid, the more they lost track.
They owed for their water (which made their teeth brown),
They owed for the heating (which barely warmed down),
They owed for the air (though they’d never agreed),
They owed just for breathing—yes, truly indeed!
Their backs were all bent, their hands cracked and sore,
Their cupboards were empty, their bellies asked for more.
Still, the letters arrived—humming doom in bright red,
And each one demanded more coin than they’d shed.
No laughter remained—not in cradle or square.
Even babies were born with despair in their stare.
It hadn’t been always so grim and so tight—
There’d once been some balance, and neighbors, and light.
The farmers had traded, the bakers had shared,
The teachers had taught, and the healers had cared.
But kingdoms, you see, can be fragile and blind—
And fear is a whisper that poisons the mind.
Then came the Con, in a carriage of gold,
With wheels made of bone and a smile smooth and bold.
His suit was too shiny, his hair stiff with pride,
And the horses that pulled him were frothing outside.
He climbed up the steps of the Parliament grand,
Flashed teeth like a fox, and raised up his hand.
“I come,” he proclaimed, “with the plan of the ages!
I’ll tear up your debts and rewrite your wages!”
He told the poor folks they would soon become kings.
He told the rich lords he’d protect all their things.
He told the cruel men that their sins would be fine—
“Just follow me now and fall into line!”
And the people—so weary, so hollow, so worn—
Let him speak, unaware a monster was born.
He courted the Lords in their towers of glass,
Where they swam in their coins like a trout in tall grass.
He said, “Give me gold, and I’ll give you the crowd.
I’ll point them at enemies. I’ll shout very loud.”
And the Lords, full of laughter, did open their vaults.
(They cared not for honor, or caution, or faults.)
They didn’t yet know, though they’d someday regret,
That Don was a thief with a mountain of debt.
He’d stolen from widows, and sold them old cures,
He’d taxed the dead dearly and fined the half-poors.
He’d peddled up lies dressed as dreams on a tray—
And the rich, being rich, just looked the other way.
He built a tall court all of glitter and dread,
Where chandeliers burned while the workers went unfed.
Only the wealthy were welcome inside—
The poor could peek in, but their dreams always died.
Now down in a village near cinder and frost,
Lived Linnet, a clerk, keeping track of the cost.
Not noble, not famous, not gifted with charm—
She tallied the debts while the world came to harm.
Each month came a letter, pale paper, red seal—
It slid ‘neath her door like a cold, biting eel.
It told her, quite plainly, how much she must pay—
For silence, for shelter, for working that day.
And she paid it. Oh yes. Every coin she could grab.
But the ledger grew larger with each tiny stab.
Service fees. Interest. A chair tax? A sigh?
And yet, though she paid, the number climbed high.
Till one winter morning, she counted and saw:
The debt had now doubled, without cause or law.
She stared at the ink, shimmering oily and black.
She touched the red seal and it burned her right back.
She’d bought no fine coats. Hadn’t eaten much stew.
Yet still, they demanded a payment times two.
Below, her old neighbor let out a dry cough—
He once made fine shoes. Now he boiled the scraps off.
He’d taken to drinking his boot soles with brine.
(“It tastes,” he once said, “just like hardship and pine.”)
Outside, snow was falling, but never would melt.
It covered the doorways in sorrow and silt.
And Linnet, at last, from a soul cracked with woe,
Stared at the page and simply said: “No.”
She said it so softly, it barely was sound.
Then louder, and louder, till echoes were found.
She screamed it so hard, it shook floorboards and glass—
And the village itself seemed to tremble and gasp.
She crumpled the paper and threw it to flame.
And watched as the ash curled up with her shame.
The next day, she walked to the bakery stall,
And handed the baker ten coins—that was all.
“No more ledger,” she said. “No more scam, no more game.
They broke the contract. I’m done with the shame.”
The baker blinked twice, then his eyes filled with flame.
“My house? Let them take it! My cart? Let them try!
The debt nearly broke me. I’m through with their lie.”
That night, in the dark, by the fire’s low glow,
The baker burned his ledger, and watched the ash blow.
Then came the butcher. The blacksmith. The priest.
They each stopped their payments. The taxmen deceased.
By the tenth day, the village was done with the theft—
No tithes for the Lords. Not a crumb for them left.
Ledgers stacked high on each windowsill tall—
Unburned, unread, but ignored by them all.
Not forgotten, no no—remembered with pride.
Proof they’d once paid… but no longer complied.
Then came the guards, in their iron-tipped boots,
With contracts like knives and law-printed suits.
They dragged the blacksmith into snow slick and wide—
But found themselves suddenly flanked on each side.
The baker held high his peel like a blade.
The healer poured ink on the scrolls they’d displayed.
The children threw stones, and Linnet stepped near—
Right up to the guards, with no hint of fear.
“You can’t take,” she said, “what we choose not to give.”
“You ruled us by lies—but now we live.”
And so the guards fled—not from wounds, but from will.
From people united, defiant, and still.
Their reports reached the Lords in the Tower of Silk,
Where they drank silver tea in robes soft as milk.
They scoffed at the letters, they jeered at the poor,
“They’ll cave by the weekend,” they promised. “They’re sore.”
“Send more debt! And more fees! Let them twist in the net!
They’ll whimper and beg and repay every bet!”
But the silence that followed was not full of dread—
It was full of courage. Of shoulders and bread.
The valley went quiet. The mills ceased to grind.
No coin changed hands, no contracts were signed.
The auction halls stood like tombs made of gold—
With nothing inside them, and nothing to hold.
Their servants walked out. The hearths all went black.
Even the ledgers refused to keep track.
The Lords rang for Don. “Fix this!” they cried.
But Don had no magic. Just slogans and pride.
He screamed in his palace of dwindling shine.
But no one responded. Not once. Not this time.
The screens were all blank. The crowds had moved on.
The towers were hollow. The glory was gone.
Because power, you see, is a curious thing—
It lives in the people. Not coin. Not a king.
So Don fled at dusk with his pockets full-weighted,
And not one hand reached out, not one soul debated.
They say he still wanders with gold none will take—
Each coin stamped with lies and the face of a fake.
The people, at last, have a saying they share—
When debt comes to knock, when the lords start to glare:
“Life is for living, not owing in fear.
And no coin buys power when the people don’t hear.”
And so they lived—maybe not rich, but just fine.
Except for old Don and his wealth-thieving line.
The people remembered, and wrote it in ink:
“If ever they rise, we’ll refuse them their drink.”
And the Lords? Oh, the Lords—let them beg in the mud.
May their coins turn to rust and their ledgers to blood.
As for Don the Con and his bankrupt elite?
Well, fuck those guys mightily—and may they stay always beat.
Now raise up your glass and give it a clink:
To solidarity, freedom, and never their drink.
The Beginning