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Encantos De Moçambique*

December 1, 2022 by szachik@pvs.org Leave a Comment

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.

Filed Under: Fiction Tagged With: Encantos De Moçambique, Remy Haring

Knock Knock?

November 30, 2022 by szachik@pvs.org Leave a Comment

By 7th grader Penny Andreas

A lot can be said and conveyed via comedy. PVS Bloggers searched for something comic that
fascinated them or was an integral part of life. Penny remembers those ever-present, slightly annoying knock-knock jokes.

Jokes are a very special phase that I believe all kids go through at one time in their life. My sister, at age five, loved to run up and say something like, “Why did the cat cross the road? . . . To go to the bakery.” It made no sense, but it cracked her up. Knock-knock jokes, in particular, have been around since the 1900s, says NPR’s article “The Secret History of Knock-Knock Jokes.” One thing most people all like are some good ol’ knee-slappers. I surveyed a couple of people to see what their favorite jokes were. I’ve included them below. Enjoy! 🙂

(The “Interrupting Cow” joke happened way too many times so I apologize if you don’t see yours.)

 

7th-Grader Roman Sooban: Knock, knock? 

Who’s there? 

Spell!

Spell who?

W. H. O. 

Teacher Mrs. Maguire: Knock, knock?

Who’s there? 

Impatient cow. 

Impati-

MOO!

7th-Grader Jackie Padgett: Why did the chicken cross the road? 

I don’t know. Why?

To get to the idiot’s house. 

Okay.

Knock knock.

Who’s there? 

The chicken. 

(Jackie: I always fall for this one; it’s sad.)

7th-Grader Sierra James: What do you call a bear with no teeth? 

Dunno.

A gummy bear!

6th-Grader Lorelei Behr: Knock, knock?

Who’s there? 

Banana.

Banana who?

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Banana.

Banana who?

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Orange.

Orange who?

Orange you glad I didn’t say banana?

9th-Grader Kayliee Augustine: Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

A broken pencil.

A broken pencil who? 

Nevermind. It’s pointless.

Teacher Ms. Schapiro: What did the snail say while riding on the turtle’s back? 

I don’t know.

WHEEEEEEEEEEE!

Junior Levi Kassinove: Knock, knock? 

Who’s there?

To.

To who?

To whom. 

Filed Under: Humor Tagged With: Knock Knock?, Penny Andreas

Cave Dweller

November 30, 2022 by szachik@pvs.org Leave a Comment

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

Filed Under: Animals, Awakening, Fiction Tagged With: Cave Dweller, Levi Kassinove

An Ode to Levi’s Hoodie

November 29, 2022 by szachik@pvs.org Leave a Comment

I asked PVS bloggers to find a captivating photo. Indy was captivated by Levi’s new hoodie. In these 60-degree days, an alpaca hoodie is surprisingly appealing.

By Junior Indy Behr

Levi stays cozy in his alpaca fiber-based hoodie in blog class, risking a potential dress-code violation. Note: No alpacas were harmed in the making of Levi’s sweater hoodie.

When I was assigned to write about a photograph I considered long and hard what sort of a piece I should author inspired by this prompt. It did not take me long to find what I wanted to discuss. Recently, a hoodie has come into my classmate Levi’s possession. To put it nicely, it is all he has talked about over the last few days. It is certainly not inexpensive, so I wanted to see why he said it was so worth it, and why he thinks it’s so special. Inspired by Pablo Neruda, I am creating my very own An Ode to Levi’s Hoodie.

An interesting story that inspired me to write this article is an incident wherein Ms. Zachik inquired to Levi whether his hoodie was made of cashmere. Levi was borderline offended at even the insinuation that his hoodie was made with cashmere, and he quickly interjected that it in fact was made of alpaca fiber. Several of us in blog class described Levi as pretentious, and his recent article regarding beef that costs $200 dollars per pound did not help him defend himself against these accusations. Levi’s blog colleague Luke went so far as to give him the nickname, “Princess Levi.”

The hoodie is Paka Apparel’s appropriately named The Hoodie. It is made up primarily of royal alpaca fiber, recycled nylon, and pima cotton. It is handwoven in the southeastern Peruvian city of Cusco. Paka Apparel describes The Hoodie as casual but also functional. It is very lightweight, coming in at less than 10 oz. It is said to be appropriate for climates both cold and warm. Though it is not cashmere–which is obtained from goats rather than alpacas, Paka claims it is just as soft. I have felt this hoodie, and I can confirm it is amazingly soft.

I was shocked to see how positive the reviews for this hoodie were. Reviewer Julia B. said, “It’s comfier and cozier than I ever could have thought.” Levi echoed this sentiment. Though some reviewers expressed their disappointment regarding the fact that The Hoodie does not have a pocket, Levi told me that the quality more than makes up for the lack of such a pocket. 

This hoodie may be $139, but Levi does not even question its worth, and he wouldn’t let us question it either. When asked what his favorite part of The Hoodie is, Levi told me he appreciates that he can wake up everyday to dress himself in the fur of a Peruvian alpaca. He has said that his self-confidence is boosted when he sees “pitiful” students wandering donning “makeshift polyester hoodies with their logos and capitalistic designs.” In a sophisticated manner, Levi explained he values the cusqueña alpacas who do not provide their fur for profit, and he is of the belief that the alpacas “are honored” to provide their fur for such a noble cause as his hoodie.  

All in all, I can very much understand why Levi treasures this hoodie so very much. Evidently, its price point is understandable once one factors in the quality ingredients that it is composed of, as well as the fact that it is handcrafted by experts in the Urubamba Valley who oversee the stunning views of the surrounding Andes mountain range (just look at Paka’s website, really). I think it is safe to say that Levi has successfully made me want to purchase The Hoodie.

You can find The Hoodie at pakaapparel.com.

Note: This hoodie is not considered dress code. Levi has been dress-coded and will only wear his alpaca during free-dress days.

Filed Under: Aesthetic, Happiness, The World Tagged With: An Ode to Levi's Hoodie, Indy Behr

Solitudes of which are dreadful

November 17, 2022 by szachik@pvs.org Leave a Comment

By Middle-School Blogger Penny Andreas

PVS Bloggers went in search of a compelling photograph. They were asked to tell the story behind the photograph. To answer, Why does this photograph pull you in? Penny pulled this photo because it made her afraid. To me, it looks like a scary scene out of Severance. For Penny, it’s a jumping-off place from which to discuss phobias.

Blog Advisor Zachik
Photo Source: Luanna Strawbridge at Pixy.org

Imagine yourself walking in this empty hallway. Does anything seem wrong or scary? This photograph, to most people, seems as though this is a regular hallway, with a regular ceiling, and a regular set of walls. For myself, and some other people in the world, this is absolutely terrifying. Though this might sound ridiculous, this is an actual fear, or “phobia.”  This is called “Autophobia.” Autophobia is the fear of being alone, or in solitude. And, no, this is not about relationships. It is about literally being alone in any situation, and being afraid. However, people have even reported having autophobia attacks in crowds, though it is rare. 

What is a phobia?

A phobia is pretty simple, and this word dates back to ancient Greece. “Phobia” comes from the Greek word “Phobos,” which is a Greek god that summons human fear. So, it’s pretty self explanatory; a phobia is what you simply fear. Want to read more about phobias? See what Healthline has to say:

https://www.healthline.com/health/phobia-simple-specific 

How to figure out your phobias and find anecdotes

First, there are so many phobias in this world–from the fear of long words, (Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia) to the fear of holes (Trypophobia), or even something super common such as Claustrophobia, the fear of tight spaces.  

To deal with your phobias, the first thing I would personally do is just walk around town, or around your house. If you come across something that scares you, or makes you freeze up, and makes it hard to breathe, try to find out what that object is. Keep in mind this could literally be anything:  spider, a bird, a tight space, a cliff. Once you know the source of the disturbance, I suggest researching things to help when you are scared. One thing that helps me with my autophobia is simply staying close to something I love: such as my family, my dogs, or even a heavy blanket to comfort me. Of course, do whatever comforts you the most, and what makes you feel a little less scared. 

Filed Under: Health and Disease, Humanity, Psychology Tagged With: Penny Andreas, Solitudes of which are dreadful

Does the Camera See Who We Really Are?

November 15, 2022 by szachik@pvs.org Leave a Comment

By Junior Alyna Rei

Years ago, Stanford admissions asked freshman applicants to attach a significant photograph, then write about it. Generations of Stanford applicants attached photos of horses, grandfathers, fields of flowers, the contents of their desks. The PVS Blog Staff went on their own photo scavenger hunt in search of a compelling photograph. Once found, their task was to tell us the story behind the photo. Alyna found a photo that reveals, perhaps, “the real Alyna.”

I recently went through my camera roll on my phone and found this interesting photo of me. I was curious about the photo and asked my mom what I was doing. This photo was taken when I was about three. 

Apparently, it was another day of preschool for me, and I was acting like the normal toddler that did not want to leave the house. I’ve been told that I was screaming and crying, so my parents bribed me into quiet with a bag of Ruffles chips.

Alyna, not happy, on the way to preschool. Circa 2009

Then, my memory came back to me.  I remember I was feeling so betrayed. I had this annoyed feeling in my chest. When I was younger, usually I would be okay with going to places, but I guess this one day I was not having it. I made a fuss. Ironically, as soon as we hit the preschool, I remember I was actually fine. Maybe I just had a rough morning.

I’m not sure why this photo fascinates me so much. Maybe it’s because of the way my mom turned in her seat to take a photo of me. Or maybe it’s because of the way my mom dressed me (I hate those pants). But, this photo will always be a favorite of mine and be something I will always find funny. Today this is not usually how I act. Back then . . ., apparently, it was another story.

In the words of my mother, if you have a kid who is fussy or crying because of preschool, bribe them with food; make it a treat that they don’t usually get, like ice cream. That’s funny, too–my mom advocating bribery. 

Filed Under: Visual Arts Tagged With: Alyna Rei, Does the Camera See Who We Really Are?

Steak of the Gods–Wagyu

November 15, 2022 by szachik@pvs.org Leave a Comment

By Junior Culinary Aficionado Levi Kassinove

Who wants turkey when you could have wagyu?

What is Wagyu?

A grade A5 Wagyu steak is Levi’s picture of beauty. (Photo source: robbreport.com)

You know steak. You might have heard of wagyu. Wagyu literally means Japanese cow, which has evolved to connote the highly marbled and expensive ($200 per pound) steak that we know today. Generally, people agree that the more marbling (intramuscular fat) a steak has the better. The marbling is the white stuff you see in the steak. The steak pictured is grade A5, which is the highest grade of wagyu. Wagyu is graded by the Japanese Meat Grading Association (mychicagosteak.com). I wonder if there is a Japanese Meat Tasting Association. If so, sign me up. Anyway, for comparison, here is a picture of normal angus steaks that you’d buy at the grocery store:

Typical angus steaks found in the typical grocery store. You don’t see as much marbling, although an angus is still good if cooked right. (Photo source: dartagnan.com) 

As you can see, the wagyu steak has much greater marbling. But what does this mean for the flavor? How do you cook it? And, most importantly, is the price worth it? I’ll give you a hint: The answer to all three questions is “Yes.”

The Flavor

Assuming that the steak is cooked correctly (which I will get to later), wagyu will genuinely be one of the best, if not the best, food you will ever eat. Your favorite food is pasta? Pizza? Tacos? Not anymore. It’s wagyu now. You know what umami is? It’s the flavor that makes things taste good. You best believe that wagyu is full of it. When you take a bite, it’s like a hedonist party in your mouth. The amount of rendered fat in there will make you redefine the word “juicy.” 

Honestly, I don’t know how else to describe it. The flavor of wagyu isn’t actually so complex. It has a sort of…fiery simplicity. There is an explosion of comfort. It is heavenly. I will say, though, that the more marbling a piece of wagyu has, the less it tastes like steak and more like a kind of refined grease. It certainly won’t make you feel good after eating it. That is why I recommend staying away from notoriously marbled cuts like ribeye. In my opinion, it will just be too fatty. 

How to Cook Wagyu

I would say that 70% of what makes a steak good depends on how you cook it. For most steaks, the optimal way to cook a steak is by reverse searing, which is basically just cooking the steak in an oven before searing it on a piping hot cast iron skillet. Medium rare to rare is objectively the best level of doneness for steaks, as evidenced by the late chef Anthony Bourdain in his book Kitchen Confidential. Bourdain stated that people ordering well done steaks at a restaurant “pay for the privilege of eating our garbage,” and that anyone who does it is a “philistine” who “cannot tell the difference between food and flotsam” (mashed.com). Now, I’m about to say something that might make you hate me. I prefer wagyu that’s cooked medium. I know that some idiots inexperienced steak lovers will say that medium rare is still optimal for wagyu. And, if you want to try that, then have fun. Tell me how it goes. I’m sure it will still be good, but I encourage you to do a side by side comparison of my method vs. the regular medium rare reverse sear. The fact of the matter is that wagyu is just too fatty to be cooked like a regular steak. Cooking a wagyu steak medium rare or rarer will just not render (melt) all of the intramuscular fat (in my experience), leaving you with a steak that hasn’t reached its full potential. Now, I’m going to teach you how I cook wagyu. It’s based on the way Japanese chefs do it.  

Materials:

  • A wagyu steak
  • A cast iron skillet or stainless steel pan
  • High quality salt (why use the cheap stuff on a $150 steak?)
  • Meat thermometer for losers (optional; you can touch the steak to gauge internal temp)

That’s seriously all I would use. Now, let’s get into the preparation. I’m assuming you know how to defrost a steak. If you’re thinking about defrosting it in the microwave or something, you might as well stop reading this article. Moving on, the next step is to trim the fat. Save whatever you’ve trimmed off because it will be important later. After that, salt the steak. Be generous. Cover all sides including the edges. If you think you’ve salted it enough, put a little more. Then, you’re going to want to put it in the fridge for at least an hour. What’s going to happen is the salt will draw moisture from the steak, then let it distribute back in. This is why you need so much salt. You are salting the whole steak. This tenderizes the steak and gives it more of an evenly distributed flavor. The longer you leave it in, the better. People do it for 24-48 hours even. But I don’t know if I could leave wagyu in the fridge for two days without eating it. 

Cooked wagyu (Photo source: kitchencookbook.net)

Now that the preparation is over, the next step is to get the skillet ready. You’re going to want to get it as hot as possible. I would say like 700 degrees Fahrenheit is a good place to start. If you don’t have an infrared thermometer, you can just splash some water on the skillet and see if it evaporates instantly. At this point you should also take your trimmed fat out of the refrigerator for it to melt at room temperature. Once melted, brush the steak with the fat and coat the skillet. Now, cut the steak into strips or cubes, whatever you want. This will efficiently cook the steak. Now toss them onto the skillet and sear the strips for about a minute on each side. The time will vary depending on the thickness of the steak. Just take it out when you feel like it’s right. Also, be sure to have a fan running and a window open because it’s gonna get smoky. 

That’s it, and that’s all. Have it with a glass of wine–or water for the kids. But, I know you’re not sharing your wagyu with your kids. If you’re having it with wine, just make sure it’s red, unless you want to expose yourself as someone who doesn’t understand how the universe works.

Is the price worth it?

Honestly, yes. Absolutely. If I were a billionaire I’d have it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I’d live fast and die young for wagyu. In all seriousness, if you can afford it, I’d highly recommend you try it at least once before you die. It is truly an unforgettable experience. Even if you can’t afford it, I suggest you still save for it. Who needs water and electricity? Who needs to respond to the IRS? Spend that otherwise wasted money on wagyu instead. You won’t regret it.  

Filed Under: Advice, Aesthetic, Food, Op-Ed Tagged With: Levi Kassinove, Steak of the Gods–Wagyu

Соколови, сиви тићи*

November 10, 2022 by szachik@pvs.org Leave a Comment

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

Filed Under: Fiction Tagged With: Remy Haring, сиви тићи*, Соколови

The Only Real Artist in the Family–My Grandmother

November 9, 2022 by szachik@pvs.org 1 Comment

By Junior Levi Kassinove

Our PVS bloggers explored art and artists. Levi went close to home with his favorite artist, . . . his grandmother.

I know my writings are usually pretty…avant garde–and not exactly in ways that have clear merit, either. (See “A Clam Thanksgiving.”) My grandma, on the other hand, possesses an artist gene that she clearly refused to pass on. Nobody else in my family is even good at drawing. Working as an art therapist for 23 years in a community mental health clinic gave my grandmother a unique, empathetic perspective on people with mental illnesses. I interviewed her recently about how her experiences in the clinic shaped the way she painted, and this is what she had to say.

(https://www.tinakassinove.com/) 

Me: Let’s start from the beginning. Who are you besides my grandma?

Tina: My name is Tina Kassinove, and I have been painting for over 50 years. I lived in New York for most of my life and moved out here to the desert around five years ago. 

Me: Why did you become an artist?

Tina: I’ve always loved art, even as a young child and more so around the age of seven. As I went into elementary school and to higher grades, I was always asked to go down to the lower grades to teach kids art. It was always something I loved. Maybe I’ve always felt the need to express myself through art because expressing myself verbally was not my skill. 

Me: What kinds of paintings were you originally making?

Tina: Early on in my career, I did hardline acrylics. There is no blurring of one area into another. Every aspect of the painting is clearly defined. Mentally, I was very rigid in my application of the art, and I was not allowing myself to freely paint what I wanted. I was not comfortable with who I was as an artist. Later on, working as an art therapist for the mentally ill just…freed me up. It really did. It gave so much more dimension to my life and to who I was. When I moved here, to [the Coachella Valley], I immediately embraced the beauty of the mountains and the colors of the foliage, which freed me up even further. I’ve allowed myself to not let the concepts that I come up with control my art, but let the canvases control my concepts. 

Me: You’ve done a lot of paintings about mental health; can you talk about those?

Tina: Working as an art therapist gave me such insight into the pain and suffering of those that grow up with mental illness. Everytime I completed a work, I would see something that reflects one of those patients and their struggles in that artwork. I also think that during my time working at the community mental health center, I gained insight into the workings of the mind and how nothing is black and white. There are so many grays and colors in between that really transformed who I am as an artist today. 

“Schizophrenia” by Tina Kassinove

Me: Did you have any famous artists that you looked up to?

Tina: I absolutely did. I loved Mondrian, for instance. Some of my paintings earlier on, even now, reflect Mondrian. When I graduated from college and was developing my skills, I also liked Picasso and Lichtenstein. 

Me: If you had to pick a favorite painting, what would you choose? 

Tina: If I had to pick? Honestly, I think that one over there, “Coexistence.” I think the reason why is because of how the painting developed, and how I saw difficulties with it and just went with them. And, it turned out to be successful. I allowed the shapes to guide me.

(Side note, this is what she meant by the canvases controlling her concepts.)

“Coexistence” by Tina Kassinove

Me: Lastly, if you had advice for young aspiring artists, what would it be?

Tina: Have faith in yourself, and never give up, and…let the experiences in your life guide you. Just allow yourself to be free and express yourself.

I don’t know, that doesn’t sound so good. Help me out here. You can tweak it, you know? Make me sound real good, kiddo. 


Truly, it is difficult for artists to define why they do what they do. It is also difficult for them to give advice. Anyone who plays with emotion, color, and philosophy is bound to be somewhat mystifying. It seems that artists have a unique approach to life, in that they let it wash over them without thinking too much about the logistics. With Covid, most people would complain and lie in their beds all day. At the end of the ordeal they’d complain more about it to their friends and family. My grandma would choose to make a painting to express how she felt. How exactly a painting captures her experience is up to your interpretation. Also, you can find more of her art at https://www.tinakassinove.com/. 

“Weathering my storm” by Tina Kassinove, the Covid painting

Filed Under: Art Tagged With: Levi Kassinove

Every Man a King*

November 8, 2022 by szachik@pvs.org 1 Comment

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

Filed Under: Fiction Tagged With: Every Man a King*, Remy Haring

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About

We are the Palm Valley Firebirds of Rancho Mirage, California. Join us in our endeavors. Venture through the school year with us, perusing the artwork of our students, community, and staff. Our goal is to share the poems, stories, drawings and photographs, essays and parodies that come out of our school. Welcome aboard!