In the country of Broken Porcelain, where mountains whispered propaganda and rivers bled ink, Main Character woke up inside a boot. Not a room shaped like a boot—no, a literal boot, size 472, stitched from old treaties and lined with national anthems. The air inside smelled of victory and mildew.
Main Character adjusted the monocle (or was it a bullet?) hanging from one eyelash and crawled out onto the asphalt sky. The clouds saluted.
Main Character was late for the Great March of Conviction™, a solemn and mandatory celebration of disagreement. People carried signs with no words on them, just punctuation marks fighting for space: a semicolon throttled a question mark, an exclamation mark impaled by an ellipsis. The anthem played backward.
"March for peace through bullets," shouted a man holding a dove in a tank barrel.
"March for bullets through peace," whispered a woman weaving poppies into a landmine.
Main Character saluted the contradictory unity with both hands, and then with none.
On the way to the Marble Trenches (which were made of soap and occasionally wept), Main Character encountered a bureaucrat with a cabbage for a head.
"Are you here to support the war?" asked the cabbage, peeling layers of itself with each word.
"Are you here to oppose it?"
Main Character answered:"Yes."or"No."depending on which direction you read.
The cabbage granted passage in the form of a passport made from tree bark, signed in mushroom spores. Main Character swallowed it, because that was the correct protocol.
At the Marble Trenches, soldiers played chess using real people as pieces. Pawns exploded with poetry. Bishops carried knives and confessions. Kings were absent. Queens wept silently while manufacturing soap.
"Strategy is sanitized murder," said the General, who was made entirely of mirrors.
"Strategy is sacred duty," echoed his reflection.
Main Character watched. Applauded. Cried. Ate a helmet filled with soup. All things were true here.
At sunset, Main Character climbed the Hill of Eternal Perspective, which changed its name every few seconds. Sometimes it was the Hill of Just Following Orders. Sometimes it was the Hill of Glorious Resistance. It never decided.
Main Character shouted into the wind:
"I believe in the war because it gives me purpose."
"I detest the war because it gives me purpose."
Birds dropped pamphlets shaped like hands. One of them slapped Main Character gently. One gave a high-five. One exploded into confetti.
Night fell like a bomb politely asking permission.
Main Character crawled back into the boot, now slightly smaller, stitched tighter, lined with yesterday's casualties.
Dreams arrived in parade formation.
One dream showed Main Character planting flags on corpses.One dream showed Main Character planting flowers in their wounds.
In both, they smiled.
Epilogue (optional, depending on your reading):The war ended when someone misplaced the concept of borders. Everyone cheered. Or screamed. Or both.
Main Character disappeared into a comma. Or maybe a crater.
Either way, history forgot the punctuation.
Or preserved it.