the bird on fire

The Bird is the Word: Sophisticated Schoolyard Shenanigans

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Encantos De Moçambique*

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By Junior Remy Haring

Portuguese East Africa (Mozambique) – Deutsch Mittelafrika Border

In a series of stories told from multiple perspectives from 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, one in which the Central Powers won the First World War.

April 15, 1937

It was a warm, humid dawn. Insects were chirping, and you could see the stars. There was no civilization for miles–only the dense jungles of this far-flung Portuguese colony. The golden crucifix on my uniform glistened in the glaring sunlight. I could hardly breathe behind the mosquito mask. I missed Lisbon: the salty air, seeing the magnificent royal palace towering over the city and the beautiful churches and, most importantly, I missed peace. I didn’t want to be fighting a brutal bush war. My thoughts were broken by distant gunshots. The Germans were out there. My commanding officer João looked toward the source of the gunfire and shouted, “We will attack the enemies of Christ and Duarte II! To arms!” It’s time, I thought, quiero ir para casa, I want to go home. We were launching an offensive against the Germans. I drew my rifle and joined the rest of the squad. We advanced north into Deustch Mittelafrika. 

We were marching in a single-file line through the treacherous forest. Who knew what poisonous insects or apex predators could be lurking here, or, worse, we may even be walking straight into a German ambush. I heard João whisper a prayer that we would defeat the German heathens. We wandered the forests for who knows how long when we stumbled upon a small local village deep in the jungle. It was a series of small, circular huts that formed a ring. When we entered the village, we were met by a group of locals. None of them spoke Portuguese, and none of the troops spoke Ngoni. While João was searching for Germans, I sat down leaning against the huts. A little boy, about five or six came up to me with a big smile and gave me a pineapple. I smiled at him, and he skipped away. Back home, I was always told that the colonies were filled with savages who did not recognize the one true faith, but when I looked around, they just seemed like people. I saw two guys working together to build a hut, a child trailing his mother, maybe what I’ve been told since birth is wrong…

My introspection was interrupted when a German soldier was found hiding in one of the huts. He was forcefully grabbed by João and interrogated.

“Where is the rest of your squad!?” João barked.

“I-I don’t know, I vas part of a lost patrol und the people–” he stuttered.

“–harbored a protestant heathen,” João finished for him. “We have ways to make you talk, heretic.” He turned to us with unfeeling eyes. “We must show the natives here what happens when they harbor heathens.” He gestured to the ring of thatched homes and ordered, “Burn. It. All.” 

When I turned to the soldier next to me, he had struck a match with no expression on his face. He tossed it at a thatched hut–and another, and another like a storm of embers. The fire began consuming the village. Madly, my platoon cheered. I froze. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak; all I could do was watch as the village structures collapsed in on themselves and burned. I heard screaming, a screaming I sometimes still hear when I wake late at night.

*Charms of Mozambique. A Portuguese colonial song.

Cave Dweller

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By Junior Levi Kassinove

Weekly, I assign the Blog Staff a Creative Writing Prompt–separate from their weekly posting prompt. The prompt is intended to be fun–sometimes the results are publishable, sometimes . . . not. Two weeks ago, I asked the staff to write about “darkness.” Levi went . . . dark . . . and to a completely unexpected place. We blame his new alpaca hoodie. Still, if you’re a fan of the workings of Levi’s mind, you may enjoy the following fiction . . . into the dark.

Blog Advisor Zachik

Day 1:

I’m currently hiking in the Andes Mountains. There is a clear sky and a bright sun. I can see a rainbow over the distant mountains. 45 minutes ago, I was separated from my group of friends that I met last night during a shamanic ritual. I am currently following a herd of alpacas. I think that they can at least guide me somewhere safe. 

Update 1:

The alpacas led me to a hermit who seemed to be taking care of them. He lived near the entrance of a cave that stretched deep into the mountain. Upon my arrival, the hermit sheared some of the alpacas and gave the fur to his wife, who then proceeded to start weaving the fur into a sweater, presumably as a welcome gift for me. The hermit led me into his minimalistic wooden shed, which had an air of detachment and mystery that made me uneasy. He offered me dinner, which consisted of sautéed, unfamiliar-looking mushrooms and a glass of…some sort of liquor. It tastes pretty good, actually. 

Update 2:

I woke up in a cave, presumably the same one that the hermit was near. There is nobody around, and I have an alpaca fur sweater on. I do not remember the weaver finishing the sweater I’m wearing, nor do I remember her giving it to me. The cave is dark, cold, and scary. Right now, I don’t know what to do, and the walls are moving. Though I can’t see the movement, I can feel it.

Day 2:

Nobody has come to save me. I have been eating whatever I could find in the crevices of this cave. All I have is the warmth and comfort of my alpaca sweater. I can only hope that soon someone will save me. Who was that hermit? Why did the alpacas follow him?

Day 35:

I have been using a rock to etch lines into the cave walls to denote the passing days. I am beginning to feel my mind slip, in the sense that I cannot trust my humanity, but I am resisting the slipping. My sweater has, remarkably, remained dry and cozy. I also didn’t know that grass grows in caves. Here there is grass. Why did I even decide to follow the alpacas? What was I thinking?

Day 203:

I found the hermit’s corpse last week. He had chunks bitten out of him, as if he was eaten by a pack of hyenas. But I have an eerie suspicion that it was the alpacas. I wonder if I’m their next target. I should have never followed them to the hermit’s cave. They are a murderous bunch. A gang of land dolphins. I wonder if no…that can’t be right. They must’ve tricked me…somehow…into following them to the hermit so that they could murder both of us and dispose of the evidence. Yes, I am beginning to piece it together now. 

Day 116:

They were always out to get me. Alpacas are sentient beings. I don’t even think that they are from earth. That innocent hermit…he was just happy to be in the presence of nature. He treated the alpacas well. Those animals are a bunch of psychopaths. I don’t know why I am still wearing this sweater. I don’t want to wear the fur of murderers. It’s just…so…warm. I wonder what happened to the weaver. She must be worried sick.

Day that I will escape:

Last night, sure enough, I found the weaver’s corpse. I am definitely next. This is all just a sick game to the alpacas. Torturing me just for entertainment. Is it because I took their fur? Is it because I’m human? A contributor to the demise of the planet? Whatever it is, I am going to escape. I just need to figure out how. How am I going to escape when the walls are constantly moving?!!! 

Day ___:

there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape they tasted so good there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is no escape there is 

It was all a red herring. 

The hermit. The weaver. The cave. The alpacas. They are just animals. Just grazing…they happened to bump into the hermit and the weaver. 

I’ve just got it…I’ve repressed the idea for so long. The sweater proves it all. I couldn’t take it off no matter how much I wanted to. Nature is me, and I am nature. We were always one. This is the end of my journal. I can’t bear to write anymore, and there’s some hay over there that looks pretty good. My hands…have they always looked like . . . hooves??

Photo Source: vanderbilt.edu

Соколови, сиви тићи*

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Lojane, Serbian-Bulgarian Border

In a series of stories told from multiple perspectives from 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, one in which the Central Powers win the First World War.

January 24, 1937

“Za Kralja I Otadžbinu, Sloboda Ili Smrt! For King and Fatherland, Freedom or Death!” The entire platoon shouted as General Draža Mihailović was giving us orders for our fight against the Bulgarians. He was about fifty years old, had small, circular glasses, a big, bushy beard and the gray uniform that all Serbians had in the army. I always chuckled to myself whenever I heard that phrase: “For King and Fatherland, Freedom or Death!” Since the Great War we were technically a kingdom, but given that we do not have a monarchy in place, a military dictator by the name of Drogomir Vlasić has taken power. For the peace treaty, we lost our southern lands, the Greeks lost their northeastern land, and the Romanians lost their coast. With the founding of the Belgrade pact, all three nations vowed to fight against the Bulgarians and reclaim their lost land.

Our camp was overlooking a picturesque flatland on the foothills. There was no sign of Bulgarian troop movements, just an open grassland with snowy mountains towering over. Shame I got assigned to the artillery squad because my job will be to blow it all up. My position was up on the foothills with two other soldiers: Dejan and Nikola. We had a great view of the plains that stretched south down to Macedonia. But there was no time for sightseeing. The Bulgarian army could charge at any moment. Immediately the soldiers down in the plains began digging a trench and laying out barbed wire and landmines. It’s 1918 all over again, I thought.

January 25, 1937

I woke up to the sounds of shouting and gunfire. Nikola shook me and shouted, 

“The Bulgarians are here, get to the gun!”

It was the crack of dawn, and the first thing I saw was a wave of Bulgarians charging across the field and the Serbians firing from the trenches. The next five hours were all the same: I load; Dejan aims; and Nikola fires. Load, aim, and fire; load, aim, and fire. It felt more like a factory job than anything. I didn’t even bother to look up to see the follow-through explosions because of the sheer adrenaline. By the end of the day, the formerly pristine meadows were a blasted heath. My ears were ringing from the gun, and the smell of smoke and gunpowder filled my nostrils. The first day of the Battle of Lojane was over. The Bulgarians didn’t manage to break our trenches, but this was only the beginning. 

January 26, 1937

Nikola was searching for Bulgarian positions. When he slowly lowered his binoculars, he looked like he saw a ghost and all he said was “oh god…” A tank was rolling onto the battlefield like a lumbering bear. This wasn’t anything like those shipping containers with treads that the British had back in the Great War, this was a modern, German-made, tank that was approaching the trench followed by infantry. I loaded the shell; Dejan aimed; and Nikola fired. The shell whistled through the air, and for what felt like minutes, my heart skipped a beat. The blast engulfed the tank, but just as we began cheering, the tank continued its march across the field. The turret slowly turned to our position, and with a thunderous crack, fired. Debris burst into the air, and all three of us were coughing up dirt. The shell hit just below our position, and the artillery gun was now just fragmented, metal scrap that dotted the hill. A tide of men launched from the trenches–charging the Bulgarians as a last resort. The tank shot once, and again, and again. I… I don’t even want to describe what I saw on that blasted heath. 

*Falcons, Grey Birds, a Serbian monarchist song

Every Man a King*

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San Francisco, USA

By Junior Remy Haring

In a series of stories told from multiple perspectives from 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, one in which the Central Powers won the First World War.

November 3, 1936

A deeply unpopular president, two economic crashes and new, extremist parties that could very well win the election–What could go wrong? I muttered while on the way to the ballot box. The sky was a deep gray with the Golden Gate Bridge towering over the great city. On those Victorian-style apartments that San Francisco was famous for were signs and banners for the various candidates. One banner read, “Every man a king! Huey Long ‘36” and another read, “Join the one big union! Bill Haywood ‘36.” Everywhere I went, I saw signs promoting every candidate but Herbert Hoover – our Current President. I even saw a few signs promoting the far right Old Democrat Party (ODP).

With the Great Depression and the subsequent Black Monday, both the Democratic and Republican parties have been competing with new, rising radical parties. The America First Party, led by Huey Long, has developed a stranglehold in the impoverished Midwest and promotes everyone having the basic goods they need. It’s a party that wants to enforce a wealth ceiling. However, they have been criticized for their populist, authoritarian rhetoric. The Socialist Party led by Bill Haywood wants to make America a Syndicalist nation not unlike the UK or France. They are really popular in the Rust Belt. The far right ODP led by William Murray preaches agrarianism, ultranationalism and white supremacy. For the most part they are popular in the Deep South. “Yep…” I thought to myself, “…our country is screwed.”

Outside the ballot box, there was a fist fight between two campaigners: one loyal to Huey Long, and the other was for Bill Haywood. A middle-aged man who looked like he just left his job as a day laborer spat on the Huey Long campaigner before entering the building. As I approached the building, there were campaigners desperately trying to make people change their vote at the last minute. Some teenager wearing a French beret basically forced a pin for the Socialist Party in my hand. The pin had the red and black anarchist flag with the One Big Union motto. Unsurprisingly, there was no one campaigning for Hoover at all.

As I was filling out my ballot for Huey Long, I heard a massive crash followed by the twinkling sounds of shattered glass. Looking up, there was the syndicalist campaigner with a broken bottle in hand standing over the crumpled body of a campaigner for the ODP wearing a stereotypical cowboy outfit. God save America, I muttered while making my way out of the voting station.

*A slogan commonly associated with Huey Long

One small, single blur

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By 7th-Grader Penny Andreas

When I said, “Give us a chapter from the book of your life,” PVS Blogger Penny wrote the story of her first migraine. I’ve only read one other description of a migraine so descriptive and revealing–and that was the famed Joan Didion’s.

Blog Advisor Zachik

It’s not the same as it was. 

I walked into my 1st-grade classroom to the familiar smell of rain and Lysol. The rain boots were lined up beside the cubbies, with colorful backpacks hanging among them. Sitting on the alphabet carpet, I met my friend, Lucia. We both waited patiently for our reading groups to be divided. The teacher, Marissa, walked in. Every day, I was jealous of her hair that reached all the way down her back. She walked over to us, and split up the class; me and Lucia separated. I walked over to the corner of the large classroom, excited to show Marissa my “reading skills.” 

Marissa sat me down, right next to the small window with the chicken painting I loved. I opened my book: The magic treehouse. Marissa told me I could start reading whenever I was ready. I took a sip of water from my small water bottle and slowly turned the colorful cover of the book. On the first page was a small drawing of a tree. But, there was something wrong. There was one small, singular blur blocking the people in the picture. I rubbed my eyes and started to read. The words now came harder to read by the second. I couldn’t see the words; they were blocked by that one singular, small blur. I stopped reading, and I looked up to my teacher. Half of her face was blocked; my eyes somehow refused to show her expression. I started to breathe heavily. I couldn’t see my friends’ faces. I couldn’t see the letters in the book. I couldn’t figure out what was happening. My breathing would not slow down. My heart was beating abnormally fast. I had to place my hand on my chest to try to slow it down. I started to cry, and all I could hear was my loud and heavy pulse. My teacher desperately tried to calm me down. She took me to the hallway; she said she would call my mom to pick me up. 

When she left, my head started to throb with pain, as though it was going to beat with my heart. I tried to make it stop. I held my head in my hands. I tried creating pressure from my hands. As tears created smooth pathways on my face, my legs started to tremble, uncontrollably. It was so much pain, so much confusion, so many things going wrong. Alone, I sat there in the hallway, not able to see, not able to stop trembling, not able to control my body. As I was holding my head; it felt as though my brain was traveling down my face. My head burned, and the pain made me wince and close my eyes. The world around me had stopped; then, blood rushed out my nose. I tried to stand; my legs were weak. I attempted to walk toward the bathroom, not even seeing where I was walking or where I was. Eventually, I made it and stuffed the crusty-musty paper towel up my nose. The nosebleed lasted only a couple of minutes. When I walked out of the bathroom, my mom was there. She carried me to the car. I started to cry harder, I could not even see my mom’s face. She put me in the car seat, and buckled me up. She raced to get me home. The sun shone brightly in my eyes, making them feel sore and hurt. At that moment, my stomach losing control, forced me to throw up. My mother handed me a bag, begging me to not get her car dirty. She frantically turned into our driveway, and, holding me, ran up to my bedroom where she lay me down in bed.

Hej Slaveni!*

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By Junior Remy Haring

In a series of stories told in multiple perspectives from 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, one in which the Central Powers win the First World War.

Vienna, Austrian Empire

September 23, 1936,–the day I will never forget:

“We are Slavs, and we are angry. For over 800 years our people have been under the boot of the Austrians. Our languages are being replaced by German; we aren’t allowed to wear our traditional clothing, and now Orthodox Christianity has been banned. The new prime minister Jörg Lanz Von Liebenfels openly calls us a “lower species.” Every one of us–Czechs, Slovakians, Polish, Ukrainians, Serbians, Bosnians, Croatians, Slovenians and Montenegrins– needs to come together to throw that fossil out of parliament. We make up 47% of the population. Imagine what we can accomplish when we work together!”

Professor Lazar Palić

This is the speech my professor delivered to the crowd before we began marching on Vienna. We were waving pan-slavic flags of blue, white and red stripes. Some protestors were holding up signs that said, “Justice for Gavrilo Princip!” It was he who killed the heir to the Austrian Throne and started the Great War. The Austrians see him as a terrorist, where we Slavs view him as a martyr for the slavic people. 

The school band and choir were playing Hej Slaveni! The crowd was chanting “Ujedinjenje ili smrt! Unification or death!” I was flying the Croatian flag and chanting. I felt so much hope then for a future where us slavs were free, but I also felt fear for how the government would respond, and then I felt pride for my people uniting for our survival and justice–justice against the empire that had oppressed us for far too long.

But, my roiling emotions were overshadowed when we reached the Vienna Parliament. Police dressed in full riot gear lined up in front of us. Machine gun emplacements were set up around the street. However, the riot police did not fire upon us. That is, until we saw Prime Minister Jörg Lanz von Liebenfels himself. He was a short, old, balding man with small, circular glasses. The only thing that really stood out about him was his white, priestly robe with a bright red cross on his chest. He didn’t address us. Without any sound of conviction or emotion, he ordered the police:

“Clean the streets of this human filth.”

… I don’t remember what happened after that.

*Hey Slavs! A pan-slavic patriotic song

Fünf­und­fünfzig Tage in Peking

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By Junior Remy Haring

In a series of stories told from multiple perspectives from 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, one in which the Central Powers win the First World War.

Hong Kong, German East Asia

June 23, 1936

First it was Black Monday, then Poland left the German Empire, next a civil war in the Qing Empire breaks out, after that a crazy guy seized power in Mongolia–Roman Von Ungern-Sternberg–while claiming to be the reincarnation of Genghis Khan, and now there’s a revolution in Indochina; ach, mein Gott! What is even happening?

I was on my routine patrol of the waterfront. The night was clear, no clouds, no birds, not even the sound of a foghorn; it was just the stars. It made me forget that there was a massive civil war going on just outside the walls of Hong Kong and that my family had to wait in bread lines back in Frankfurt. My nightly patrol revealed streets covered in sewage and trash, water a greenish-black color, and houses diminished to little more than ramshackle piles of brick and tarp. Rats and cats scuttled all over the dingy streets. Towering over this squalor was the battleship SMS Hohenzollern; with all the lights and whatnot it almost looked like a city skyline itself. My patrol that night was pretty uneventful. No one was out. The most action I got was humming 55 Tage in Peking while smoking a cigarette. Unfortunately, there was no way I was getting the smell of sewage and trash out of my uniform.

June 24, 1936

The next day I was patrolling the urban part of the city. There were sightings of a skirmish between the Qing Dynasty and the socialist Left Kuomintang (KMT) not far from the city, so now the military high command was on high alert. The urban center was crowded with street vendors hawking. The streets were filled with pedestrians, donkeys, bikes, etc. The patrol here was a significant step up from the waterfront, but even here there was still tons of poverty. There were beggars on street corners and bread lines stretching blocks. The Black Monday crash has not been kind to this city.

While patrolling a market square, a little kid, clutching her mom’s dress, pointed at me and said, “Fritz!” I had some food rations in a bag. I kneeled and handed the child a biscuit and the mother some preserved meat. Tears gathered in the eyes of the mother, and she gave me a hug. She said in broken German, “d-danke schön,” and the child had the biggest grin I’ve ever seen. The two left the line and went back toward the houses. My lunch was some fried noodles I got from a street vendor. I sat down at the curb and began eating. I’m telling you, it was so much better than the stale biscuits and meat drowning in preserves that made up my diet for the past year or so. All seemed peaceful, until my commanding officer Heinrich approached me. I stood.

“Sir?” I asked.

“The Chinese Civil war has spilled over here. Left KMT positions are shelling us. Your job is to evacuate the civilians to shelters. Go now!” Heinrich barked.

And, then, I began hearing it: the pack pack of rifles and the distant concussive blast of artillery. The marketplace devolved into chaos. I began directing crowds into the bomb shelters. Everyone in the street was panicking and running around like mad. I had to get up on a box to move everyone to a little shelter in the basement of a shop. It was a tiny, metal room with shelves filled with canned goods–that were soon picked clean by the refugees. Overhead I heard the whistling and subsequent explosion of a shell and the sounds of gunfire. At least I managed to get some people out of harm’s way. 

*55 Days at Peking

Save me

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I challenged the blog staff to write a short story. Luke was especially happy about that. Penny took up the challenge with her own fish tale.

Blog Advisor Zachik

A Short Story by Middle-Schooler Penny Andreas

“Welcome! Welcome Ladies and Gentleman to the ‘Great World Circus!’” Thomas W. Ratgrape stood in front of the crowd, feeding off of their applause. His great big smile on his face stood out in the spotlight, and his brightly colored red suit shone in the circus ring. 

“Thank you. Thank you, everyone. No, really, I mean it. Now, first up, we have your one, and only, ‘Dancing Monkey!’” 

The brass music boomed over the speaker. Thomas rushed behind the curtain, his support-staff followers running after him. 

“Sir, you go back on after the monkey.” 

“Sir, sir, your suit is unbuttoning!”

“Sir Your father wants to–”

“JUST SHUT UP!” Thomas yelled. “I DO NOT CARE! JUST GET ME THAT FISH!”

Everyone looked at each other, wondering who should move first. 

“WELL! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? THE FISH ISN’T GOING TO COME BY ITSELF!” 

They all started running again, worried that their master, Thomas, would yell and fire them. Soon enough, the monkey was done dancing, and the crowd was becoming bored. Thomas quickly looked around, desperately looking to see if the fish was there. 

“Gertrude! Gertrude, where is the fish?” Thomas frantically said to Gertrude, who was the janitor of the circus. 

“I dunno,” she said.  

Thomas sighed and quickly started to pace across the maroon carpet. 

“I’ve got it! I’ve got the fish coming throoooooough!”

“Lacey? You were the last person I thought would get the fish. Is it well? Eh, no matter, we have to get it on!”  

Thomas ran out of the curtains and quickly took his spotlight. The music stopped, and a loud drum roll burst out of the speakers. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome the amazing, magnificent ‘Talking Fish!’”

Gertrude placed the giant fish tank onto the scooter, and rolled it out into the circus ring. The fish, Margarine, tried to swim, but her tank was too small. She couldn’t even move. 

“How incredibly rude. What do they even want me to do?” Margarine asked. She looked beyond her dirty, small glass like aquarium, and saw the crowd. Her eyes were blinded by the lights. She refused to look at the crowd and tried to turn her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Thomas and his mean, stink-eye glare. He slowly walked over to her. 

“Fish, if you don’t start talking, I will make your life worse than it is.”

He walked away squinting at her. Margarine floated there, speechless. What am I supposed to do? She pushed on the glass, daring to break it, daring an escape. The glass was strong, yet Margarine was stronger. That glass popped out and shattered on the hard cement ground. Water spilled out, creating a tidal wave that carried Margarine across the ground. She frantically tried to swim, hoping she could make it to the clear water pond just outside the door of the tent. She was almost there when Thomas stepped in front of her and picked her up. He apologized to the bored audience and quickly walked backstage. As soon as he was behind the curtain, he threw the fish against the wall into a water tank. 

“HOW DARE YOU EMBARRASS ME IN FRONT OF MY PEOPLE?! MY AUDIENCE?! YOU ARE A DISGRACE! YOU SHOULD BE SORRY FOR WHAT YOU HAVE DONE! THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES!”

He stormed out of the room, leaving Margarine alone in the dark. She swam to the bottom of the tank, and belly flopped onto the gravel. She longed for her sweet, clean, clear pond that they  polluted in order to capture her. She missed her poor family, swimming alone in the river to which they were transferred. She missed them so dearly. But at that moment, *click*. 

The custodian Gertrude walked through the door and turned on the lights. She took out her mop and bucket of water and started to clean the floor. 

“Hello, Gertrude,” said Margarine.

“AHHHHHHHHH!” Gertrude yelled, dropping her mop. 

“Well, don’t be frightened for goodness sake. I was only being polite.

”Gertrude stared at her in awe. How could the fish be speaking? Was she dreaming? Was she even alive?

“You really speak? How?”

Margarine laughed. 

“I don’t really know. I just started to talk one day. But when the world found out, they captured me, and pulled me into this…this horrible place.”

“Well, I guess we are similar in that way. I wanted to go to college, but I got fired from my job and lost all  my money and had to work at this dump.”

“Perhaps we could someday escape, though that day would be far far away due to the situation here,” Margarine sighed. 

That’s when Gertrude had an idea. They could escape. They could get out of this miserable, terrible, horrible place. 

Gerturde jumped up into the air. “I know how we can escape!”

Margarine was delighted. “How might we do that?”

“Tomorrow night, when you perform for the last time, you can tell the audience how bad Thomas is treating you, and then they will have to all leave, and right then we could leave, too!”

Margarine was thrilled. She was so happy with the thought that she could see her loving family and pond again. That night, she slept for the first time. 

The next day, Margarine woke up with joy, but suddenly it diminished like water on fire. She awoke to everyone running around, yelling, and frantically waving their arms. Thomas was not around surprisingly. At the corner of her eye, she noticed Gertrude standing with her mop. Gertrude met eyes with Margarine, and broke a small smile. 

“WHAT IS ALL THE CHAOS?!” Thomas suddenly walked into the main room. Everybody froze and immediately turned to Lacey. Thomas started to slowly walk across the room. 

“What…is going….on?” snarled Thomas. 

Lacey’s eyes were wide open, and her legs were trembling. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. 

“I-I–I…I LOST THE MONKEY!” Lacey started to cry. She went down on her knees. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” 

Thomas looked down at her like a hawk watching its prey from above. He walked silently to the back of the room. 

“Find it. Or else,” Thomas said. He walked out of the room, smoke metaphorically fuming out of his ears. Gertrude rushed over to Margarine. 

“Don’t worry,” whispered Gertrude, “I stole the dancing monkey, and I’m going to replace it with a normal foolish monkey.”

Margarine sighed, worried that the plan wouldn’t work. She swam to the top of the tank and said, “He will have to put me on instead, and then we can escape?”

“Precisely,” smiled Gertrude. She then walked away and went back to her mopping. 

Two hours later, Thomas prepared for the show, for he was on in 5 minutes. 

“Are we prepared? Is everything ready? Where is the monkey?” 

Gertrude pretended to be rushed and threw herself onto the ground, the fake monkey in her hand. “I’ve found it!”

Thomas looked down at her. “Thank you,” he said, and he snatched the monkey out of her hand and walked off. 

Gertrude was thrilled as she got up off of the ground. She was ready to get out of this dump. 

The music started to grow out of the big bass speakers, and the spotlights circled around the circus ring. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome once again to the circus!”

The loud brass music played, which was heard from backstage, where Gertrude and Margarine were desperately waiting to see the magnificent fail of Thomas. 

“First up, I will joyfully present to you, the one, the only…Dancing Monkey!”

The spotlight appeared suddenly on a miniature stage, with the fake monkey on it. The monkey blocked the light with his hands, and ran off the tiny stage to the door and ran out. Thomas stood there speechless, surprised that he had just lost the monkey. His mind quickly turned to the crowd though, and he rushed to take the spotlight. 

“Well, that was unexpected! To keep your interest, I want to show you the magnificent, amazing “Talking Fish!” Thomas said nervously. 

Gertrude pushed Margarine to the center of the dusty stage. Margarine looked out to the crowd, hoping this would work. 

“Hi. My name is Margarine. I am a talking fish. And although many people stare at me in awe when I speak, some people treat me wrong for it. They give me small fish tanks, which smell and are unclean. They also force me to talk and punish me if I don’t. I don’t like the disrespect at all. I find it quite rude. And these people, they are horrible. And I know one person who is like this. Thomas W. Ratgrape.”

The audience gasped when they heard this, and immediately refused to stay in the circus tent any longer. People demanded their money back, and some climbed out of the seats. Soon enough, people were carrying Margarine’s fish tank outside, and placing her in a beautiful pond outside of the circus. Gertrude followed, cheering for her and Margarine’s freedom. 

And they all lived happily ever after. Except Thomas W. Ratgrape.

A Clam Thanksgiving 

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A Traditional Re-Telling, by Renowned Clamologist Levi Kassinove

Platitudinous as it was, the clams rested year-round on the sandy ocean floor. After all, do clams migrate? Do they flap their little halves and swim around twice a year? It doesn’t matter. A clam is what a clam is. A lowly, pathetic filter-feeder. Humans have them for dinner all the time with pasta. They are NOTHING to the animal kingdom. They are but a meager source of protein and tedious work for us. It is truly a pain for animals to bust open their shells, only to find a lackluster gob of flesh on the inside. Despite this rather insensitive banter about clams, which is obviously discussed among all other animals on a constant basis, clams are thankful.

A clam has its own little clam family, just like you and me. It is thankful for the bacteria that wafts in its direction, possibly providing sustenance. I don’t know what a filter feeder eats. Maybe it’s algae…. Nevermind, it’s plankton (bioexplorer.net). The fact of the matter is, even if one suffers from clampression, or is currently going through a clamcession, or is even in the midst of a global clamdemic, clams will stand (rest?) strong because of their hard outer shell. 

A NON-THANKFUL CLAM (wordpress.com)

Clams have a marvelous ability to stand vis-à-vis with an octopus and not move a muscle. One clam is cornered. Our cornered clam senses he isn’t skilled or strong enough to avoid octopus calamity. It’s inevitable that this clam is gonna die. He’s gonna get crushed. All the other clams escaped from the octopus confrontation. They called upon their octopus-evasion skills; he wanted to be like them. But deep down, the clam knew he wasn’t as talented as the other clams. All he’s left to ask is…why isn’t he enough? To him, it seemed that everyone else was naturally better at life than him. Sure, he held his own in most aspects of life, but escaping an octopus? Clearly he did not have the talent. He was effectively worthless–not because of the octopus, but because of the other clams. See, if they had all died, he would feel totally content with his failure. He would happily accept death by octopus. But the fact of the matter was that he was the runt of the litter. He had to accept that. His misery sunk him so low that he actually started physically sinking into the sand. He disappeared under a blanket of wallow and self-loathing and small oceanic granules. The octopus scoffed and swam away. 

Levi says, “The inner mind of animals are all alike in their inherent struggles”
(Photo Source: ktla.com).

Then, suddenly, a giant evolved-monkey appeared in the water. At least, that was what it looked like to the clam. It grabbed the clam along with his family, which was like 15 other clams. The diver put the clams in a bag and threw them onto a boat. And, it was then, riding in a boat to their inevitable deaths by some chef at an Italian restaurant, that the clams celebrated Thanksgiving. Every clam knows that they are about to die. And yet, they celebrate the lives that they have lived. Our protagonist clam must forgive himself. Was it his life that he should be thankful for? Or rather, should he be thankful that HE has to carry the burden of being a worthless piece of shellfish? At least, the clam proposes to himself, he is punished with this terrible burden, rather than another clam. The clam would rather he suffer than another. He may not have forgiven himself, but he has forgiven The Almighty Clam. And that is why he is thankful. For he is…a clam. 

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