Memoir of an Anarchist City
The following short story was published in The Leipzig Glocal on 20th August 2018.
It was written for Sventlana Lavochkina’s 1003 Nights of Leipzig competition, winning the prize for Mixed Genre. I have been assured by the Glocal that a victorious mug sent to me by mail.
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Memoir of an Anarchist City
[page one]
[Title reads: Memoir of an Anarchist City]
[written by Leipzig Großstadt]
[abridged for your pleasure]
[Crunching sound of boots and horses on the frozen soil of a winter morning]
Chapter One: Childhood
My first memory was the river that came down from the mountains. A white water tumbling from a hillside horizon slowed to a drift around my lowest points. Submerged my western trees and flooding the green miles behind.
It was she that brought life to my arid plains. I, just another anonymous land, suddenly in bloom and populated with flowers. Blessed now with a black tide surging north to the sea.
Chapter Two: First Love
They had been crossing the skyline from east to west. A man with a moustache and a runaway bride. Binoculars and fingers that pointed to here. They fell to their knees upon reaching my river, drinking the fresh water.
He tried to catch a fish, he missed. Unintentionally splashing his bride, she shrieked laughing, playing and fighting. They romped on the dirt until the stars came out and the moon was high. They softened and creased, salted in sweat. Spaghetti embrace and no-one else for miles.
“I’ll never leave.” the woman said to her man, with a tear and smile, golden band on her finger pressed up in that cradle of her man’s open chest. He raised a palm to touch the rise of her cheek.
“Then I guess we’ll have to stay.” he said, confused by the weight. He missed a step.
Chapter Three: Family
The fire would be set on evenings like this. The smell of hot fish being smoked on a stone, strong enough to carry down the streets to the houses. Arousing the tribe to holler and dance like salivating dogs. High spirits lubricating the dusk.
Superstitious women wore flowers in their hair. Men wore moustaches for luck. Coming together inside a stone circle to chant to the sound of drums.
“This sacred land!” they would call, “Has set us free!” drum drum drums.
A homage that would raise the voice in baritone cheers. One woman kneeled, kissed my soil and made me blush in a strong harvest.
Chapter Four: Friends
Approaching from the west. Hundreds of strangers cast long shadows and walked through the centre of our new town.
“Hallo, wir sind Deutsche,” said one of them, socks in his sandals. “Wir haben eure Party gehört. Können wir mitfeiern?”
My pagan tribe fell to a suspicious silence. The fire snapped and a moment passed. Smiles of the newcomers faded by the tension. “(Maybe we can try repeating to them again in English?)”
“Did you bring German beer?” asked one of my girls, flowers in her hair.
“No.” socks and sandals said, he gestured at a crate of sillywater. “Only Bavarian!”
A display of humour that raised the baritone cheers once again. Two gangs assimilated now with good-feeling and mingling forever, it seemed. New children, Slavic chins, Germanic noses.
—
Charlemagne: What’s all this interbreeding nonsense…
[The year is 0782]
[Crunching sound of boots and horses on the frozen soil of a winter morning]
[Halts]
Soldier 1:
The edge of your kingdom, my sweet Lord. We await your gracious instruction.
[Charlemagne, King of Franks, in a royal carriage wearing frilly pyjamas]
[engrossed in a book, titled ‘Memoir of an Anarchist City’]
[by Leipzig Großstadt]
Charlemagne: [muttering to himself as he reads] Pagan parties, alfresco shagging… this can’t be real life. Idealistic pie-in-the-sky. Who pays for all this? What is this lefty claptrap story?
Soldier 1: [shivering in the doorway] My king, please. Hasten the angelic guidance.
Charlemagne: Whuh? [looking up from text] Where the devil are we, men?
Soldier 1: West bank of the Elster basin, sire. Primitive land ahead. Your mighty warriors, their honest steeds, stand on the edge of unenlightened Saxonia. The Lusatian settlement of Lipsk now lies under the shadow of our Holy Roman maw and is awaiting decimation at your divine signal.
Charlemagne: Wait, wait… we’re in Leap-seesh, you say? [Glances at the spine of the book in his hand] How are you spelling that… no, change that name. Make it easier. Make it feel good against my regal tongue.
Soldier 1: What do you think of ‘Leipzig’, Special One?
Charlemagne: Never been. Bring me solutions not problems, lad. Now give me my peace. I should not be unnecessarily stressed or disturbed like I am. A king’s skin must maintain the texture of pure cream cheese. (I read an article about it in The Scribe, you know.)
Soldier 1: But heavenly Father, your men are restless for glory, perhaps the horses too. Give us your blessing to rape and pillage until we are sated.
Charlemagne: Blessing granted and don’t stop for lunch… and while you boys are having fun, recall the vital aspects of cultural genocide. Exterminating faith is what breaks the mind. It is the purpose of a real crusade. The barbarians must learn subservience to a higher power. They must learn to kneel. Convert or be converted to dust. Control the narrative, and we make them write our story.
[Commence: the sound of slaughter]
Charlemagne: Now, where were we…
—
Chapter Six: Further Education
Frantic sounds like pleading as blood spilled on the lawn, watching the death stack in thousands. Friends and socks and sandals, Sorbian moustaches, family corrupted the colour of red roses.
Announced next day by bugle. Outsiders in metal armour had declared I for them with their weapons like fear of the swinging mace and the laugh of sadism. Hardened every human face until they all resembled stone. Stones the belligerent forces uses to build the city anew.
With the days of before now over, they became legends to comfort children. Who were screaming at the trees blocking out the sun, drowning in the river to escape control. Leipzig is gone, they said. Except the little ones with hope.
And the time goes.
—
Charlemagne: [closes the book, retrieves a pen with a smile]