Weapons of Mass Distraction

by Forest Moss © 2025

ACT I: THE GATHERING STORM

In Heartgrove Hollow, lush and wide,

Where Riverbend’s waters used to glide,

An ancient dam of wood and stone

Had kept the valley safe, alone.

But Tally Squirrel saw the signs—

The leaking joints, the sagging lines.

A single mother, nest to tend,

She feared what floods might bring to end.

Owliver perched on wisdom’s branch,

His keen eyes tracked each creeping blanch.

"The moss grows thin, the beams lean west—

Six moons remain, at very best."

Lantern Firefly blinked in code,

Her light revealing what erode.

"My sensors read the pressure’s rise,

We must act fast—no compromise!"

Maple Goose, the Council’s voice,

Honked urgently, "We have no choice!

The village budget’s running thin,

But dam repair we must begin!"

Young Newt, the junior engineer,

Spread blueprints, making dangers clear.

"Here’s where the water seeps between—

The worst structural flaws I’ve seen."

The morning Council session opened,

Tools were ready, spirits hopeful.

But then—a sound like thunder’s roar:

"THE STAR HAS COME TO SAVE YOU MORE!"

ACT II: THE SPECTACULAR ENTRANCE

A golden raft rode flames of light,

With fireworks bursting left and right.

A crown of fire, a chest of gold—

The "Doctor-Wizard": GOLDCREST BOLD!

“EXCLUSIVE LIVESTREAM! WATCH ME SOAR!”

“Your favorite savior’s back for more!”

“Triple PhD, if you please—

From Harvard Trees and Princeton Breeze!”

Tally gasped, her heart a-flutter,

Never had she seen such color.

The problems that had seemed so vast

Somehow felt smaller when he passed.

But something nagged—a tiny doubt,

What was this crisis all about?

She’d seen the cracks. They’d felt so near...

Yet when he smiled, it disappeared.

Owliver’s eyes grew sharp and narrow,

Though he kept his doubts like sparrow.

He squinted hard through fire and flash—

But held his peace beneath the ash.

Goldcrest roared with practiced ease:

"My CIA sources just revealed—

The REAL threat’s been concealed!

Foreign otters plan invasion!

This dam talk’s just their evasion!"

Lantern blinked her fact-check code,

But crowds had clogged the forest road.

And Goldcrest’s voice was loud and wide—

Too loud for facts to override.

ACT III: THE WEB TIGHTENS

BREAKING: Otter Spies Detected!

“Maple honks in foreign tongue!”

“Mole King Army strikes at dawn—

The dam will fail, and trust be gone!”

Scrolls spun wild and rumors grew.

The Council’s work no longer drew

The eyes of crowds who once had cared—

Now every glance was misdeclared.

Tally watched with tilted head,

Scrolls above, the sky went red.

She bought a pin, then bought a book—

Each purchase earned a grateful look.

Soon a badge upon her cloak

Marked her as a "Feathered Folk."

She joined the chants, she waved a sign—

"This forest is no friend of mine!"

Lantern blinked a warning beat,

But Tally marched with squirrelly feet.

The dam, now mostly out of view,

Was crumbling... but no one knew.

ACT IV: THE GRIFT BLOOMS

"My Freedom Guard!" Goldcrest declared,

"Your loyalty will be well spared!

Just ninety-nine to join the wise—

And see beyond the scripted lies!"

Tally stood with feathered pride,

Her cloak of leaves now sanctified.

She sold bright stones with gilded tags,

And scrolls in patriotic bags.

Behind her rose the chants and drums,

As truth was drowned in marching hums.

Owliver watched from hidden shade,

While once-close friends the price had paid.

Lantern flickered by a tree,

Her glow dimmed in obscurity.

Newt’s blueprints, soaked and tossed aside—

Ignored beneath the fervent tide.

The Guard grew bold. The signs grew loud.

"No traitor voices in our crowd!"

"Flood? What flood? That’s fear they sell!"

"We stand with him. All else can fell!"

ACT V: THE FLOOD

But nature bows to no campaign.

The dam burst forth in roaring pain.

CRACK! went wood. ROAR! went stone.

And Tally found herself alone.

She clung to planks, her cloak now torn,

Her feathers lost, her spirit worn.

The golden stones sank like a lie—

No one had come to hear her cry.

Goldcrest soared above the flood,

Shouting, "You're welcome for the cleansing mud!"

His raft aglow, his scrolls on fire,

"Preorder now my forest empire!"

Owliver dragged the soaked and bruised.

He rescued those the Guard confused.

No victory speech. No smug delight—

Just quiet labor through the night.

EPILOGUE: AFTER THE FLOOD

At sunrise, by the river’s bend,

A sapling marked the storm’s sad end.

Tally knelt with silent grace,

Her kits asleep in soft embrace.

Owliver stood with scrolls unfurled,

Newt redrew lines upon the world.

Maple raised a humble sign:

"Repair Begins. The rest is time."

Lantern blinked a steady beam,

Her white light soft—no longer scream.

No chants, no crown, no rising stage—

Just creatures turning their next page.

A single feather, gold and thin,

Drifted down with wind-washed spin.

No longer worn with pride or cheer—

Just something false that passed through here.

Why I Wrote This

By Forest Moss

I wrote Weapons of Mass Distraction because I was watching something deeply troubling unfold—not just in politics, but in how we tell stories, who we trust, and what we’re willing to believe when the truth becomes inconvenient. As spectacle began to replace substance in nearly every corner of public life, I wanted to create something that could cut through the noise—not with volume, but with clarity.

This fable isn’t for children, though it borrows a child’s lens. It uses rhyme, rhythm, and animal allegory not just to soften the blow—but to highlight it. Like the cautionary tales of old, it’s wrapped in whimsy but rooted in warning.

I’ve watched wise voices like Owliver’s be dismissed. I’ve seen everyday people like Tally fall for easy belonging over hard questions. I’ve seen dazzling distractions pull entire communities away from problems that were right beneath their feet—sometimes, quite literally crumbling. And so I wrote a fable about a dam and a rooster and a forest that lost its footing chasing a lie that sparkled.

At its core, this story is about what happens when distraction becomes doctrine. When myth becomes weapon. And when a single voice, if left unchallenged, can drown out the quiet work of building and protecting something real.

used to work in the world of cybersecurity, where deception was engineered and truth required relentless effort to protect. Now I write fables. But in a way, I’m still doing the same thing—shining light into dark corners, helping people tell illusion from intention.

Weapons of Mass Distraction is a bedtime story for a restless republic. I hope it reminds readers—of all ages—that wisdom still matters. That attention is precious. And that sometimes the best way to resist the scroll… is to listen to the story instead.