Nicolas Van Der Haaris an autistic, queer writer from Australia. When he’s not crafting stories, you might find him enjoying a brisk walk, observing birds, or simply people-watching. His work has been featured in Antithesis Journal and Farrago Magazine.
Command ordered a sweep, to facilitate an occupation. In the room, we unanimously agreed that it was the correct decision. The colonel rose from his chariot and, despite his nerves, gave a short speech about the multi-faceted nature of conflict. Without pausing to allow us to applaud or even react, the colonel concluded with a short poem in Dutch we all agreed after the fact to be both charming and well-spoken. As Command departed, the men threw bouquets of gardenias and lavender after the colonel.
Artillery fire cleared out much of the old city. The soldiers gathered to admire the ordnance team’s discipline and accuracy. Walls of brick rendered into dust. Underground gas pipes broken into monstrous, flaming serpents. The local soup factory took several hits and many of the suburbs became flooded with a mixture of Moroccan lentil and pea and ham soups.
Using small businesses for cover, my companies advanced through the central boulevard. Private Comden was clever in dispersing the enemy using a flamethrower made from a clean skin bottle of chardonnay and a second-hand copy of Robert Graves’ Claudius the God. Those few still alive barricaded themselves inside avenue cafes and threw crockery and small birdcages at us. A surgical tent was erected to deal with casualties. Despite my best efforts, the staff within created an emotionally stirring and award-winning television show now in its third season. I commanded the grenadiers to bombard the old high school. A direct hit on the library proved effective and just before the lunch bell rang, the remaining enemy forces surrendered. Apparently, we struck a water main and flooded much of the basement. Before I could send scouts to investigate, a colony of catfish declared the whole downstairs a neutral zone. The enemy who surrendered followed orders given by a charming, one-eyed man called ‘The Butcher’. He was six-foot-two tall and earned the Iron Cross and Purple Heart in separate wars but wore them together, interwoven as an elaborate brooch on his lapel. During lunch break he taught us how to play backgammon with homemade pieces. Unfortunately, our foraging parties found no useable rations or supplies. Grenadier Lyttleton found a Chicken Kiev in a cheese, mustard and vinegar sauce. Before he could be stopped, he disposed of it for fear of poison.
The sun slowly began to set. An orchestra emerged from the ruins and assembled upon the cliffside amidst our artillery. The conductor announced it would be Candide. I knew that many had hoped for 42nd Street. I had to remind them that 42nd Street was not technically an opera. The actors were still wearing anti-shrapnel suits so some of the narrative was lost, but the music was still quite charming. Grenadier Lyttleton complained that the violins sounded a little out of tune. When they played The Paris Waltz, I permitted some good-natured dancing among the audience. During Glitter and be Gay, I thought the actress playing Cunegonde was truly top rate. Her voice was strong, but it didn’t dominate the music or muddle the lyrics. Absolutely delightful. Private Sondheim argued that Barbara Cook on the 1956 original Broadway album sounded better but when asked for proof he claimed to have left that album at home. Sadly, after the performance we had issues with actors and musicians mingling with the soldiers, so I had temporary fencing erected.
As the sun rose, we executed most who remained. Not everyone, of course. Some of the soldiers requested the orchestra be spared. We allowed them to retreat without their instruments. The smell of burning rosin and lacquered wood filled our lungs. Some were fortune tellers who used prophecies and palm readings to convince the soldiers into sparing their lives. A defrocked priest had his tongue torn out after he warned us of God’s unending wrath but was otherwise spared. Without reason or warning, several civilians assembled in the central boulevard and stoned someone to death. For what reason I don’t quite know why but we ensured she was buried with dignity. Despite a degree of moral hesitancy, I ensured that the violence we enacted was disciplined, martial and unprejudiced.
Death, that ancient and implacable enemy, walked amongst the men. Beneath gilded robes and with a pale finger touched their bare chests. Private Comden noted the jangling sounds of Death’s rings. The old city was filled with the hot smell that Death carries with themselves. Death stopped his march only to pluck overgrown weeds from the cracks in the blasted pavement. “Why had he come?” shouted some of the soldiers. They began tearing their hair out in fear and anxiety. “Why? Why? Why would he be here now?” Others preened and applied thick layers of foundation, eager to make themselves presentable for Death. “Why has he come?” Nobody and least of all myself, was able to answer that most often repeated question. With a bloody finger, Death dragged a message deep into the ruined earth. I paid Scout Williams with a bottle of Lacryma Christi to sketch out the message Death had left for me. Apparently and according to Death: “Kilroy was here”.
Gorgeous story. Thoughtfully written, descriptive and humorous.