the bird on fire

The Bird is the Word: Sophisticated Schoolyard Shenanigans

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The Void

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What if your home town suddenly was “erased”? Louisa takes us into the void.

A Fictional Imagining By Middle-School Blogger Louisa Richardson

Photo Source: Getty Images

When I drove home from Nebraska that day, I didn’t think it would have been any different than the usual commute home for Christmas. I was thinking about Aunty Sharon, about the last time I saw her. As I drove, it struck me – the population of Red-ton County was getting smaller and smaller. I realized there were no cars at all, no people either. I started to worry, until I saw the familiar blinking blue light on in the Red-ton County Library.  It was reassuring, . . . until it grew brighter, and brighter. And then it was gone.  

I had closed my eyes because of the brightness of the blue light, and when I opened my eyes, I saw nothing, and everything all at once.  

I stepped out of the car and walked into the bright blinding lights; it was all white, and void-like. I immediately picked up my cell to call my parents, but when I looked through my contacts, there was no one there. Aunty Sharon, my sister, my two brothers, my parents, no one living in Red-ton County was on my list of contacts. It was as though they had all disappeared into this sort of void–with my entire home town.  I turned around to look for an exit, but there was nothing there. The closer I got to the space through which I entered this void, the further that space drifted away. 

This was the moment that I started to freak out. Everything was gone. At first I was confused, then I got angry. The void grew into a sort of white room, with blinding white paint that you couldn’t touch because every time you started near the walls they got further and further away. The white void went on forever; it seemed to be endless. I tried searching for an escape. Time passed; time elapsed; my hair grew out until it touched my hips. Eventually I gave up. I sat, and hugged my knees close, rocking back and forth. That’s when the chanting started. “Gone far away” was all I heard, the same three words over and over again. The voices were what made me regain the strength to get out of there. I hadn’t eaten, drunk, or slept.  I still don’t know how I managed to survive. I got up and started running towards anything, anything other than the blinding white light that seemed to be everywhere, surrounding me. I finally found a door after running in the same direction until the void just couldn’t grow anymore. I don’t know if it appeared or if it had always been there, or if it was even real. I didn’t go through it immediately. I paused. I hesitated. I didn’t know if I would find a giant black void, or more white.  I waited, until the voices began to morph into the words “Go.” I finally opened the door. I walked out.

Then, promptly I collapsed. Whatever happened next, I don’t remember.  I drifted in and out of consciousness; people poked at my eyes, and injected me with medications I couldn’t pronounce. I finally woke up days later; I was out of it, but I remember the happiness I felt when I finally saw another living being. The doctor said that I was in a bad condition, dehydrated, suffering from weight loss. He said it looked like I had been stranded somewhere for years.  I remember him muttering to the nurse, “I don’t get it, she seemed fine last week.” My brain began to scramble; I tried to think of my life before the void, my family. I could barely remember the memories I tried so hard to never forget. The doctor looked at me with concern. He later revealed that I had come in for a doctor’s appointment the week before, but I had no recollection of it. As far as I was concerned, I had been stuck in that void for more than a year and a half. That’s about the amount of time it takes to grow your pixie cut to your knees. But that’s not what the nurses said. I tried to explain it to all of them; they just never got it. They said that Red-ton didn’t exist. My neighbors said that I went away for a day, and they heard that I was in the hospital something like an hour later.  It didn’t make sense. Did time pass differently here?  Do I have any family?  As soon as I was released, I searched for clues.  I followed the road to Aunt Sharon’s house, and there was nothing there. I must have retraced my steps a thousand times. I tried to unscramble the days spent in the void. Nothing was working. I was so desperate, I called a therapist.  She didn’t believe me either. A few months later, the nightmares started. I was back in the void; I had never escaped. I woke up screaming every night after that. No one seemed to believe me. I barely believed myself anymore.  

After that the police came to my house and took me in for questioning. Apparently after every one of my neighbors reported me for “odd activity” it seemed the only reasonable option for the cops. Since there was so much evidence that I was crazy, they put me in some mental institution for the “intellectually disturbed.” Life went on for everyone but the victims of the void. They were gone. Towards “the end,” I had no memories of a life outside of the white nothingness.  Eventually, I became engulfed in the memories of the void, unable to think of anything but the bright lights. Tortured in a trap of my own mindset.   

The End 

The Little Fish That Never Could

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As the Blog Staff imagines how life would have progressed with certain figures or events “erased,” Levi imagines(?) what life would have been if the “missing link” never crawled from the seas onto land.

By Junior Levi Kassinove 

“A real life ‘tail’ of what would have happened 400 billion years ago if fish never walked on the land.”

Levi Kassinove
Photo Source: Amazon.com

400 billion years ago, one brave aquarian caused a paradigm shift in the fabric of reality when he, Gleb, dared to travel above the surface. He saw unimaginable, incomprehensible sights. He gazed upon fantastical green mountains stretched across the horizon, giant blue mushrooms gossiping amongst themselves (presumably about our Gleb), and an old alte kaker of a rainbow eucalyptus tree yelling at clouds off in a forgotten corner of the forest. In the distance, there was a sick broadsword, a remnant of a lost civilization, halfway stuck in a boulder calling Gleb’s name. Alongside that was a goblin man eagerly waiting for someone’s arrival. On the ground and in the mountains, Gleb saw impossible materials. Impenetrable ore. Beauty beyond measure. Dragons flew freely in the skies. They flew freely. 

Gleb laid his eyes upon these sights, pathetically flopping about the sandy shore. The sand was coarse, like some brands of Himalayan pink salt, and it clawed and tore at his flesh. By the time Gleb decided with a nasally inner voice that it was time to head back into the ocean, he looked like Prometheus after an eagle was sent to peck out his liver.

The Ghoti Residence – An anemone in the Pacific Ocean

“…And that is the story of Gleb, the heroic clownfish.”

“Can you please tell us another bedtime story, Momma?” asked little Steven. 

“No, it’s time to go to sleep, Steven,” answered Momma Ghoti. 

“That was a stupid story. Everyone knows that Gleb wasn’t real. It’s just a fairy tale,” snarled Steven’s brother Jack. 

Momma Ghoti grew angry, while little Steven gasped. Now distraught, little Steven called for his father, Daddy Ghoti. A sullen, aged parrotfish materialized through the anemone. He had an intelligent demeanor, although there was no hope or ambition left in his eyes. He had heard and been fooled by the same story so many times. Daddy Ghoti comforted little Steven through his first existential crisis, and they fell asleep beside each other. “The Ballad of Gleb” never happened. Really, no fish had ever gone beyond the surface, and lived to tell the tale. There was a period in time when fish were interested in the place between sea and clouds, when Ernest Herringway wrote extensively about it. But it was not their lack of bravery that prevented various fish from reaching beyond; it was the crabs who were mostly to blame. 

Crabs are the guardians of exploration and self-improvement. They are the fun police. The ones who tell you No, that’s a bad idea; or You should not take that risk because you’re just gonna fail. They are also the ones who narc on seaweed dealers at music festivals. In a distant universe, where fish somehow did make it onto land, the earth’s main inhabitants are vile creatures called humans. The one thing humans are good at is keeping crabs in a bucket. You know why? Because whenever one crab tries to escape, all the other crabs would pull the escapee back down with their claws. The humans don’t even have to do anything because the only thing crabs hate more than others is…themselves. Now, the ocean can be thought of as one giant bucket. The crabs are the reason why no fish has ever gone beyond the surface. 

Mundanity

The water is filled with crab-cameras. They are in every road, every corner, every alleyway, and every home. CRABF (Crustaceans Really Against Basic Freedoms) is an organization outside of the government and beyond the police. Their main goal is to prevent any marine life from escaping the ocean. Daddy Ghoti was another nobody stuck in the shrimp-race; he thought deeply and with concerns about CRABF on his way to work. He reasoned that CRABF must have convinced several governments of the benefits of total control, stripping any politician of their humanifish. Benefits that he, along with millions of others, were lied to about: benefits such as “reducing crime rates” and “increasing safety.” Are those really benefits? rang through Daddy Ghoti’s head. There was a splinter in his mind, like a pebble you can’t get out of your shoe. He swam on, careful not to go over the speed limit. If the crab-cameras notice any unpredictable or idiosyncratic behavior, the perpetrator will be taken in for interrogation and then possibly executed. What do you think happened to Ernest Herringway? There are no jails. That was another promise made by governments, another benefit. Yes, it is true that upon partnering with CRABF, jails were abolished around the ocean. Jails are gone. There are no jails. There is little to no crime anywhere. Everyone obeys the law. The absolute law. Don’t even think about courthouses. If you’re innocent, you should have nothing to worry about. Don’t go beyond the surface. Stay in your bubble. Get back in line. There are no more jails. 

A little red dot flashed inside Daddy Ghoti’s head. It was barely visible, perhaps only visible to the surrounding plankton. He thought of his sons–little Steven, and Jack, who was recently arrested for swimming too close to the surface–and his beloved Momma Ghoti, who knows in her heart that the world isn’t right. But she ignores it because it’s uncomfortable, and she has kids to worry about, after all. 

Molecules of water drift aimlessly. For a moment, flowers bloom on the roots of trees, and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. 

He kept on swimming.  

So Long Yellow

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A Poem, by Middle-Schooler Penny Andreas, addressing the theme of Yellow

Lemon

Sponge

The sun

Birds

Pineapple

Homer Simpson

All yellow

Now that it’s gone

I see purple

Some shades of gray

Sometimes pink

Never yellow

Gray lemons

Purple sponges

The sun that is somehow gray and pink

Gray birds

Purple pineapple

Purple mutant Homer Simpson

Goodbye yellow

My world

The rainbow

Seems empty without it

Even the streets lined 

With yellow markings

They’ve disappeared from my sight 

So long yellow

The after. 

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The life and times of G.B Eripmav

Serial Fiction, by Middle-Schooler Penny Andreas

London,  January 30th, 3018

Dear Diary, 

It’s been one year since the human population and the animal kingdom became extinct. They left behind yet another world of destruction and later decay. I live here alone in this old and empty barber shop. I am the only one left of my race; however, there were not originally many. I have been forced to feed off of a substance other than my first choice: blood. Although nothing really has the taste of murder and the releasing of an empty soul, I have found other items give me a similar shiver down my old spine. I have found that cranberries are one option that is always around; they seem to grow in every watery bog. They are quite bitter. But, when served in a glass cup and sprinkled with crickets, there is an obscure taste that I find almost . . . alluring. I am left with few other options. 

London, February 1st, 3018

Dear Diary, 

From my concoctions, I seem to have made myself ill. I am barely able to write. I cough and cough. I am absolutely disgusted about being sick. It really is terrible; though I am grateful to still be alive. It’s a terrible day today, too; the dark clouds came back like the day everyone perished. That memory will be forever stuck in my mind. How I wish I could somehow forget it. Alas, the sun has finally come out. It’s been at least a week or so without it. Not much happens. I still sit here alone and in perfect solitude. Anon I shall look for at least one sign of life. I shall deeply wish forever for another source of life, since I am immortal and other life has been completely diminished. Farewell for now, I have some more thinking to do. 

Somewhere…Perhaps what used to be London, February 13th, 3018

Dear Diary,

                      I do recall wishing for another sign of life, but the wish backfired on me. I have found a species…or so I think. They are terribly tall with hidden faces behind cloaks. I do not recognize the language they speak, nor do I have the ability to in my current state. They came across my home in the old barber shop carrying great big weapons with fire. They have brought me somewhere…perhaps what used to be London, since there is a giant collapsed clock that stands in decay. I’ve heard it’s called “Big Ben.” At this moment, I am currently sitting on a cement ground. I sit in an empty room. I do not remember how I came to this room. It is all a blur. I managed to grab my notebook and a pen as I was being taken.  I have things to try to remember now. Farewell. 

I possibly may know this place, February 22nd, 3018

I am now guessing that I was knocked out, due to my throbbing headache and my knowledge of nothing that happened earlier. I am now in a blue room with what looks like UV lights above me. Whoever this species is, they do not have much knowledge or know of the existence of my race. I am deeply interested in this odd situation, and I wonder if they are a species from a new planet, or maybe something extremely out of the ordinary on Earth. Anything is possible….I hope this ends soon. Farewell until tomorrow. 

An Ick I’ve Had

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Alyna’s True Feelings for the Traditional PVS Poetry Recitation

At Palm Valley school, it is mandatory for grades 3rd to 12th to participate in the Poetry Recitation once a year. Basically what students have to do is memorize a poem, recite it in front of their classmates and  judges–who determine which students go on to the next round. The number of lines is different for each grade, but when you’re in high school, you most likely memorize at least 13-14 lines. This is usually the time of year where I want to disappear as I hate having to speak in front of people.

Why do I hate the Poetry Recitation so much?

It’s not about having to memorize lines as a grade, or about projecting my voice for once. It’s about reciting my poem in front of the class. I hate speaking in front of the class, whether it is a presentation or even just a few words added to a discussion. I tend to stutter or stammer over my words when I have to speak for a period of time to a group of people. I am okay with speaking in front of very few people, but with a huge group of people? No thanks. Other people have other opinions about the Poetry Recitation. They say that they hate the judging, or that they don’t like memorizing 14 lines, or that they dislike making eye contact with an audience. Some even say they like the Poetry Recitation and the opportunity to advance to the nationwide Poetry Out Loud competition (looking at you, Indy Behr).

For me, I hate being in front of the class. The class is usually silent when I recite, and I feel all eyes on me. I hate that. I feel like all the eyes are just studying me. 

Another solution?

I’m not saying that we should just not do the Poetry Recitation as I think it is a good way to have people practice enunciating words and expressing emotion. But, I feel that there can be one way we can switch it a little.

I’m fine with talking to judges, so talking to JUST judges would be nice. I remember seeing this in 9th grade when there would only be the student, the teacher, and the judges. That way, other students can focus on their poems–outside the competition room–without having to hear the person speaking.

I think that the Poetry Recitation is a nice way to get other students to practice speaking, but there is always going to be this tiny grudge in my chest that would always make me resent it. There should be options as to how to deliver a well-phrased poem.

An Opinion Penned by Junior Alyna Rei

Metsavendade Laul*

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By Junior Remy Haring

Saaremaa Island, Former United Baltic Duchy, Now Estonia

In a series of stories from multiple people all over the world collectively known as the Kaiserreich Files (inspired by the titular mod for Hearts of Iron IV), blogger Remy Haring explores an alternate history in which the Central Powers win the First World War.

Night of February 15, 1936

I was sitting on an ammo crate in our dark green tent cleaning my rifle with only a gas lamp to keep me company. My friend Jukka was on duty for the night, watching for any German patrols. Most of the German Army had fled Estonia and Latvia, but there were still a few lingering patrols on the island that were looking for me and other Forest Brothers. We were a group of Estonian Guerilla fighters who wanted to free our country from the clutches of the Kaiser. With the advent of Black Monday and the ensuing economic chaos, we saw this as our chance. While I was idling away cleaning, I heard loud and heavy footsteps crunching on leaves. For a second I thought it was a bear, but it turned out to be Martiinus.

Martiinus was a six-foot-tall giant and the muscle of our group. Not exactly the most subtle person, but he got the job done. He and Jukka entered the tent, and Martiinus had the biggest grin on his face. He produced a fresh bottle of vodka from his coat and some shot glasses.

“Where did you get that?” I asked.

“I found it in an old, abandoned German barracks,” he replied. “We are going to party tonight!”

“Martiinus, you oaf! You stormed a barracks without us? What were you doing?” Jukka snapped.

“What can I say? We needed supplies, and I’m not turning down a fresh bottle of vodka.” 

“Eh, whatever. Lucky you didn’t get yourself killed, and I haven’t had a good drink since the revolt began.”

“A toast to a free Estonia!” Martiinus shouted. “Taavet, you still have that old accordion?”

I pulled my old accordion out of my backpack and began to play Metsavendade Laul, our anthem, and we all began to sing: 

Ai-tših ai-tšah ai-velled!

Me, metsavennad, oleme

Ai-tših ai-tšah ai-velled!

Me, metsavennad, eestlased

February 16, 1936

It was early in the morning when we packed up our tents and moved to the north of the island. We got word on the radio that there was one last German division on the island at the town of Leisi, and, by god, we were going to be the ones to kick them out. Like cats we prowled through the dark, snow-covered fir trees. We are called the Forest Brothers for a reason after all. In the interior of the isle, there was no sign of human activity. It was all dense forest. We were on a ridge with a road below us when Jukka raised his hand to stop.

“See that?”

There were five German soldiers marching along the roads. The man in the front had a silver pickelhaube with a golden spike on top and the Prussian eagle emblazoned on the front. If I hadn’t known any better, I would think it was Kaiser Wilhelm himself. The other four were quietly and frantically chattering away. My German is admittedly poor, but from what I could make out, they were the last on the island, and everyone else had fled to the Latvian city of Riga.

“We ambush them on 3, give them a chance to surrender first,” Jukka ordered.

“Understood,” I replied

“You got it, boss,” Martiinus responded.

Without another word we leapt from our position and surrounded the Germans with guns drawn.

“Hands where I can see them, Krauts!” Jukka shouted, “We got you surrounded!”

When I got a good look at their leader, I saw it was none other than the famous field marshal Paul Von Hindenburg. Jukka continued with his demands while I kept my gun drawn.

“We will give you one day to get off the island and out of Estonia. Otherwise you will be shot,” Jukka demanded

“Ach ja, ja fine. We haven’t gotten any supplies since the revolt, and we are all that is left in your god-forsaken country,” Hindenburg responded.

“One more demand I have is your pickelhaube. You will return to Berlin a disgraced man or not return at all.”

“Ja, ja fine take mein kidney as well, why don’t you?”

I saw them leave from a small jetty as the sun set. The sun glinted against the ice and water as they steered for who knows where. We returned to the port, took down the old German flag, and a new, Estonian flag was raised. Down with the eagle, up with the blue, black and white tricolor.

*Anthem of the Estonian Forest Brothers

Quand Fera-t-il Jour, Camarade?*

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By Junior Remy Haring

Paris, France, January 3, 1936

In a series of stories from all over the world, collectively known as the Kaiserreich Files (and inspired by the titular mod for Hearts of Iron IV), blogger Remy Haring dives into an alternate fictional history–a history in which the Central Powers win the First World War.

The air was crisp and cold as I walked the Parisian street garnished in snow. At the corner was a little cafe. All the sidewalk chairs were taken in for the winter. A Syndicalist banner was draped on the wall outside that called for the French to support a general workers’ strike in America. I pushed open the splintered, wooden door and entered. I found a seat at the window. Across the street was a large, concrete apartment.

The inside was warm and relatively cozy. The smell of coffee permeated the air. I picked up the newspaper l’époque syndicaliste. “Quand Fera-t-il Jour, Camarade?” played on the jukebox. A poster of a French worker holding up the hand of an American worker and a British worker holding up the hand of a Russian worker read, “Support your fellow proletariat in the worldwide revolution.” I looked down at my table. It was covered with gouges and scratches. A waiter approached me.

“What would you like tonight?” she asked.

“Just an espresso, please,” I replied.

“Will that be all for tonight?”

“Yes, please.”

The coffee was watered down and tasted like sawdust, but it was reassuringly warm. I began reading the newspaper. To say a lot has happened in the news would be an understatement. The Berlin stock market crashed hard recently in Schwarzer Montag or Black Monday. Unemployment skyrocketed and bread lines stretched along streets. The situation was particularly bad in Poland where the ineffective regency council in charge did little about the situation. Now mass protests were breaking out in Poland as they demanded complete independence instead of being a lapdog of the Kaiser. Over in Russia, President Kerensky had been shot and killed. The fledgling republic was in chaos.

Here in France, a big election was going on between the current Syndicalists, the Anarchists, and the Sorelians. And, right then, a fierce argument broke out in the cafe. At the table in front of me were two people. One looked to be 40. He was covered in black soot and wore a miner’s uniform. The other was much younger and wore a bright yellow hard hat and a neon green vest. Welding goggles were draped on his neck, and he looked like he had just left the steel mill. 

“The Syndicalists are right: for the proletariat to truly be able to revolt against the bourgeoisie is for a state to be decentralized and for the government to consist of small, local worker’s unions as decision makers,” the miner said.

“You are an idealistic fool if you are to think that a decentralized state would be able to stand up against the bourgeoisie. The Totalists Ioseb ‘Stalin’ Dzhugashvili and Musollini were right saying that the only way for the proletariat to defeat the bourgeoisie is a highly centralized and militarized state,” the steel worker replied.

“Then we would just become as totalitarian and brutal as the bourgeoisie!” countered the miner.

The steel worker threw a punch at the miner, and the argument went from verbal to physical. It all culminated when the miner hit the steel worker over the head with a barstool. The steel worker crumbled to the ground, and the two were promptly forced out of the cafe.

Meanwhile, the election results for every commune in the country were being reported across the radio. Outside, a truck with the letter A in a circle painted on its side pulled up to the sidewalk. Suddenly, a brick crashed through the window and nearly hit one of the waiters. Shattered glass coated one of the booths and the floor. Thankfully, no one was hurt. The driver shouted, “Death to the syndicalist rats and the state! Long live the anarchists!” And, the truck sped off. 

So much for class solidarity, I mused and turned to the next page of the newspaper.

*”When Will the Day End, Comrade?”–French Socialist song from 1968

Потерял*

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By Junior Remy Haring

Junior Remy Haring continues with his fifth installment of his serial fiction inspired by The New Order–a mod for Hearts of Iron IV. If you recall, Remy visits an alternate dark history here, where, in WWII,  the Axis powers have won.

Chita Wilderness. No Idea what the day is.

I am lost. I don’t know what day it is or where I am. I tossed my dog tag into the bushes and ripped off the Double Eagle on my uniform. All I have is my rifle and an old bowie knife. The dense pines seem to just keep going and going. I can’t tell if I’m going east or west because the sun is completely blocked by the trees. I know one thing for sure; I cannot go back. If I was found to be a deserter, I would be hanged or worse.

There is no sign of human activity here. No tracks, buildings, not even a dirt road. I think it has been a day since the war began? But, I can’t be sure. My stomach feels hollow. My head feels hollow. Everything feels hollow. I need food and water, and fast. I make my way through the forest. The pine trees go up forever and ever. It is absolutely quiet. No birds, no raccoons, nothing-until I hear crackling and voices.

It doesn’t sound like Russian, Chinese or, hell, even Nivkh. As I advance closer to the sound, keeping a low profile, I see two men: both in their 20s wearing Japanese uniforms. They are huddled, sitting by a fire, clasping what looks like a bowl of soup. An army truck is behind them with the Rising Sun emblazoned on its side. I must have crossed the border into Mengkukuo.  

I don’t know what to do. I desperately need food and water, but these two look as lost as I am. Then, I remember that the Japanese government is helping Amur’s full-scale invasion of the other warlord states, but these two are not involved. More likely than not they are a lost patrol or something. But, then I realize the first rule out here on this edge of the world: kill or be killed. I’m not proud of what I do.

I leap from the bushes, point my rifle at them, and shout aggressively in Russian. The two are too startled to reach for their weapons. They put up their hands in surrender, and in broken Russian one of them replies, “T-take wh-what y-ou n-need, d-dont k-kill us.” I lower my rifle, steal some rice, soup, and, without another word, I slip back into the wilderness.

What can I say? I am desperate and starving. I must have scared them though. Night is falling fast, and I need shelter quickly. Fortunately, it is still light out. The trees just keep going and going with no end in sight. I’m pretty sure I am going west; the shadows of the trees point east. Out of the corner of my eyes something glints, starkly contrasting to the cold, dark forest.

As I look closer, I realize it is the skylight of an abandoned log cabin. There is a small, decrepit chimney that looks more like a pile of stones protruding from the snow than anything else, but it will have to do. Thankfully, the entrance isn’t snowed in, and I can open the old, splintered door. Inside is an old wood stove, a pile of wood and an old cot. Dust blocks my vision, but I find shelter at last.…

*Lost

Война*

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Junior Remy Haring continues with his fourth installment of his serial fiction inspired by The New Order–a mod for Hearts of Iron IV. If you recall, Remy visits an alternate dark history here, where, in WWII,  the Axis powers have won.

Somewhere in Chita, the Russian Far East, January 26, 1962

Last morning a letter appeared at my doorstep. It was a faded beige color with the stamp depicting the Double Eagle. After Rodzaevsky’s speech, I knew what it was about: I was going to be conscripted into the army and forced on to the Chita front. I was ordered to report to the army office or face death by hanging. 

The next day, I was sitting on the back of a military truck wearing a fur hat one size too small and a snow camo suit. My dog tag read Alexander Titov. Sitting across from me was a gangly young man-couldn’t have been older than 19. His entire body was shaking, and he was wearing an oversized military helmet that had “Don’t tell mother I’m in Chita” painted on it. He could barely hold the rifle he was given. He was smoking cigarette after cigarette. I really didn’t know what to say or do to calm him down. 

The sun was almost completely blocked out by the trees. Only little flecks pierced down like golden arrows. The only things I could hear were the humming of the engine and the tires crunching against the snow. Every snap of a twig, every sound in the darkness could be an ambush. I was too high on adrenaline to even think of sleeping. God knows what might happen if I woke up to an ambush. Behind me was another truck. The driver gestured to me to look ahead. I don’t know how long the boy and I had been sitting there, but neither of us dared to speak. The forest seemed to just keep going and going until the truck stopped.

The driver ordered us to leave the truck; it was time. The boy was now a wreck: hands trembling, helmet knocked askew. He could barely stand on his thin legs. Poor sod looked like he hadn’t eaten anything for days. The place we stopped was a small Chita camp in a forest clearing. There were tents dotting the forest floor, and in the center there were three soldiers around a fire. The one in the middle was playing the guitar, and they were drunkenly singing soldier’s songs from the Russian Civil War. It was almost serene until the first shot was fired.

I took cover behind a log and propped up my rifle. All I could see was smoke from the now burning tents and the silhouettes of my fellow men, writhing and screaming under the cloak of embers. I didn’t know what to do. My hand was too shaky to aim at anything properly, and, even if I could, I could very well have shot the boy mistakenly. All of this raced through my head until I heard a single, solitary pop and the thud of a body.

Behind me was the lifeless body of the boy who less than an hour ago was sitting with me. Standing above him was a Blackshirt with a smoking pistol. He looked me dead in the eyes, pointed the gun at me and simply said, “Your life or the life of the enemy: choose one. Your order is to advance on to the enemy position.” I turned back and began advancing alone towards the torched camp. Smoke clouded my vision and filled my lungs. I was a good fifty yards ahead of the Blackshirt. I finally broke. I ran. I didn’t care where. I just couldn’t do this. I hunted plenty of small game. I laid plenty of traps. But I couldn’t take the life of another man. I stumbled over many things on the ground. I didn’t know what they were, and I did not care. I ran like a wounded animal off into the Siberian Hinterland. 

*War

Слава*

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By Junior Remy Haring

Junior Remy Haring continues with his third installment of his serial fiction inspired by The New Order–a mod for Hearts of Iron IV. If you recall, Remy visits an alternate dark history here, where, in WWII,  the Axis powers have won.

Outskirts of Zeya, Amur, the Russian Far East, January 24, 1962

It was the crack of dawn. I left the house garbed in a ski mask, winter camo and snow boots. It was time to check the snares I left out in the forest for small game. The air was crisp and cold with not a cloud in sight. After 15 minutes of trudging through the dense thickets crowned with snow, I finally reached the clearing where I left a trap. A snow hare was hanging from the wire. After carrying it back to the house, I produced a skinner knife and got to work. Look, it’s not a pleasant job, but people need furs, and I need to eat.

When I finished the job, I cleaned the hide, rolled it up and carved the rest for food. I rolled up the pelt, put the meat in the freezer, and set off for Zeya. When going down the road, I saw what transpired the night before: deep boot tracks and, next to them, a deep indent in the snow implying something heavy was dragged. Blood stained the snow. Ahead of all of that, tire tracks. Damn, I thought, they must have got Kozlov. After following the dirt road for a while, I finally made it to Zeya. It was a bleak little coal town that was divided into two by the river. The only way to get from one side to the other was by crossing the old, decrepit hydroelectric dam that has been offline since the war. One side was where most of the higher ups of the RFP lived. The cluster of houses almost looked like an ideal American suburb if it weren’t for the drab paint and withered roads. The next area was where most of the Russians lived. It consisted of these massive, concrete bricks for apartments that looked like they were about to fall apart. Near the coal mine to the west was where the undesirables lived: non-Russians, non-Orthodox, etc. Their dwellings were little more than hovels huddling around the mines. Some were made of metal scrap, others logs. Some people had nothing and huddled around fires for warmth.

As I walked down the main street, I couldn’t help but feel a creeping dread. The crisp, cool air turned stale, and barely anyone was out. Lifeless buildings towered above me like the corpses of giants. I could hear the echoes of my footsteps, the snow boots crunching against the snow. I looked to my left to see pockmarks on a wall and below that a line of shoes. I could have sworn I saw a couple casings in the snow, but I could not be sure. Directly in front of me, I came across a dead tree draped with nooses–more than normal.

Despite every fiber in my body telling me to turn back, that I would be next, I kept walking through the snow. In the distance I heard a crowd chanting, “Slava Rodzaevsky, slava Russia!” Then I heard the rhythmic tramping of boots and the roaring engine of a truck. Despite the thick cover of snow, I could see a crowd of people waving flags at an intersection. When I finally reached the crowd, I saw legions of Blackshirts marching, rusty bayonets pointing into the air like missiles, and a tank roaring through the street. At the far end of the street, I saw him: Konstantin Rodzaevsky, vozhd of the new Russia. He was standing at a podium with Blackshirts on his left and right. With a raise of his hand, the crowd fell silent, and he began to speak:

“Citizens of the Amur, it is time for us to water the flower of our new Russia with the blood of her enemies–Mikhail Matkovsky and his godless heathens of Magadan to the north and Grigory Semyonov and his illegitimate puppet of a Tsar and the “monarchy” of Chita to the west. Once these enemies are defeated, we shall all be unified as the holy and pious people of Amur. We recognize that a true Russian state cannot be without God and yet must do away with the Tsars of old, for we are the true heirs of Harbin. With aid from the Japanese, our Blackshirts will march to the Sea of Okhotsk to the north and Lake Baikal to the west, and we will win. For we have God and the state on our side. Then, our land will have been purged of all who shall stop our efforts, and a new Russia shall be created.”

After his speech ended, the crowd erupted in cheers. The word ura rang throughout Zeya as the crowd roiled in ecstacy.

*Glory