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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
They were torches to our matchsticks. They ate our city’s oxygen along with everything our celebrated bakers, butchers, and distillers prepared to order. Early in the occupation we glimpsed them at the opera, at better cafes, at the racetrack calculating odds. Their uniforms were tailored to broaden their shoulders and taper their waists; the sharp black bills of their caps reflected lustre. No one disputes this. Today the world squints back at the startling clarity of their eyes and calls it all arrogance and brutality, and we don’t deny it, but they spoke our language carefully, not well, but apologetically. You’ll say we were charmed. As more arrived in caravans or after long marches through the provinces, we saw them get out of cabs to help children down from streetcars. Elsewhere, our own terrorists bruised the land with dynamite, derailed trains and unbridged rivers, to the cheers of resisters in exile, but those of us who occupied these roofs and stones had a different sort of politics and bunkered down into the essentials. At brothels, they were favored for their generosity and scrupulous demeanor. For the ladies, and for themselves, they demanded intimate examinations. Ask a madame still alive and she’ll remember. We knew them already as cross-border neighbors and tourists. We understood, also, that the few thousand we hosted were the finest. They should have been as discerning about us. We had them where we wanted them. Memories of their home lives surrendered to the crisp linens, soft women, angular music of our raucous nightlife. After armistace, they resented going home. Partisans condemn us for bringing out our best while battles raged nearby, and we don’t dispute anything that happened. We only want to say it isn’t easy to live, and we too defeated them in our way.
Original Copyright © January 30, 2007
Revised Copyright © January 31, 2026
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…