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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
Let’s all have a laugh at humanity, while we still have a sense of humor about ourselves. It’s getting dark out there, my friends, where we make what we call our livings, but here in the room, where we stage our private movies, where we are stars, it’s blindingly brightly lighted by design, mirrored and multiply-reflected, white on pink on stark white sheets and shadows flee before us. Still. We’re funny. Could we be naked and not be funny? Seen in our entirety, with back-story and motives, we’re charming and slightly ridiculous. Our mismatched genes, those cross-wired brains, these farcical downward story arcs make us sympathetic supporting characters if not small heroes, certainly not villains, but from an individual angle, directly overhead from a distance of, say, here to the mirror on the ceiling, we look exactly like the funny animals we are, pink and poignant, poking one another. In the mirror to the side of the bed, I catch a glimpse of a creature that has no business in my fantasy. He’s not at all how I pictured myself just now with my eyes closed playing for romance and yet, he’s doing exactly what I think I’m doing to this gorgeous reflection of you, and yes, you look indisputably fantastic, identical and fine, here and in the mirror, so who’s that stand-in with my haircut, doing such an unconvincing impression of me? Tomorrow we take down all this diminishing glass. We’ll do what we’ve always done. My eyes will be your only mirror, yours mine. We’ll look at each other and find ourselves. And just before we start to laugh, we’ll catch a glimmer of how we’re loved and get a sense of why. Then when we laugh, we’ll laugh until we cry like no animal we know.
Original Copyright March 24, 2007
Revised Copyright April 17, 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…