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I teach fifth grade, nothing controversial: slavery, ratios and proportions, why the good side always prevails in war. Half my students at the Army base are children of Second Cavalry, currently deployed; the other half are First Infantry, now stateside, soon enough to ship out again. These enlisted-kids pull extra duty at home when a glorious soldier-parent goes to war. They grow up practical, raised on a diet of fear, bluster, and discipline. Mostly, though, they act like fifth-graders whose parents love them and who defend the flag for a living. For the few who suffer Pre-Traumatic Stress Syndrome (trademark pending), the nightmares precede the loss. For others, the combat death of a Mom or Dad inflicts every conceivable harm (see appendix). I ride herd on a classroom full of kids who go to war by webcam and who react like soldiers in the field to their parents being shot at every day. I wonder what prayers they overhear during calls from the war zone. When they come to me in panic, I recite some boilerplate about preparedness, ask them if Mom or Dad takes living seriously, and show them on the map how big a wasteland there is to hide in in Wastelandistan. When they ask me why my wife didn’t make it back, I say she did, four times goddamit, that her life was courageous, and that carelessness caught up with her. Is their Daddy careless? Is Mommy? My words do nothing to comfort me. Nevertheless. On stagnant afternoons when you can catch a fly in your hand, when long division has lost its charm, we put away our books and their hands go up. We memorized the dates, they tell me. But why? Stop lying! We’ve know wars keep happening, they say, but why? What for?
Original Copyright © March 25, 2007
Revised Copyright © April 22, 2026
My favorite Thursday couple, smug but theoretically generous, sufficient to one another and seemingly self-contained, aspired to something more. To hear her talk of the baby was to be present at his creation. Of words she formed his little head with its wispy hair redolent of soap and spilled milk. She pressed the word Lips to the word Forehead and graced the baby’s path with choice and welcoming wide horizons. Yes, she was rhetorical. Yes, she had time on her hands. She wouldn’t be a casual mother, but too much planning had its perils, too, and she was nothing if not alive to the perils. The baby, the baby so long desired, the baby reluctant or eager, ready or not, was never consulted. At night in bed, her long warm body nestled along his long warm body insistently stirring, his arm around her waist and breath hot on her neck, she wanted to shake herself free of the future and fuck, but the baby, the unborn baby whose room was ready but whose parents were not, the baby was sleeping in ignorance too near, too lightly, and might wake if she did, might wake into fear in a dark room unfamiliar alone. She took his hand in hers and pressed it to her breast and hoped he’d fall asleep. The husband had no idea what she thought. He figured it was something to do with the nursery and painted it seven times over, once as an aquarium, once as a baseball diamond with fans in the stands, never guessing it was him she wanted to remodel. He had his visions of the future, too, and I grew tired of telling them their visions didn’t reconcile. They think next year may be the year. I hope for the baby’s sake.
Copyright © April 24, 2007
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Very Short Novels 
Thank you so much, anhinga, but I wouldn't want to try it without the other 199. —David
Why, thank you, brother. It's wonderful to see you here. :) —David
All you need is 100 words to make an emotional impact. Touching.
Brilliant, brother. Just simply brilliant.
This Very Short Novel has a strong resemblance to Simple Lessons of War from almost 20 years ago, but is…