Once, there was a great city housed within an enormous, meticulously engineered submarine. Its founding fathers were masters of math, science, and ocean craft. With their wisdom, they built a vessel designed to run perpetually, requiring only basic and efficient maintenance, all carefully outlined in a clear and detailed manual.
As time passed, the first generation of founders gave way to the next. These successors faithfully followed the manual’s instructions, and the Submarine City flourished. The third generation, too, maintained the tradition, though some began questioning the relevance of the old manual. Still, enough skilled leaders and workers upheld its principles, allowing the city to thrive.
But as generations passed, fewer citizens saw the value in learning the skills the founders had used to build and maintain their world. New factions emerged, distrusting the manual and dismissing its maintenance protocols as outdated and unnecessary.
Then came a charismatic demagogue, rising to power on the promise of eliminating the “wasteful” effort, expense, and manpower spent on maintaining the Submarine. He and his followers imagined an ocean being kept from them—a freedom they believed had been unjustly denied. Given full authority to enact his vision, he installed screen doors on the Submarine.
That was the last generation before the fall of the Submarine City.
© O. Douglas Jennings
