Kirant Zanetta Rifani - Short Story Writing - Preliminary Round NEO 2020

A FALLEN NATION'S ANTHEM

One block.

Just one single block of TNT.

One single blood-red block that ended up eradicating an entire nation.

You reminisce on the rich history of your country as you settle the gramophone – being careful not to snap it in half – on the dark-as-night and brittle-as-sand obsidian block.

Inspecting the heirloom with sharp eagle eyes – or as sharp as possible with your 20/200 vision – you notice the flat record player is sooty and the golden horn is teetering like a seesaw as if it were about to collapse. You desperately hope it still works.

Your dogs yap and your cats mew as you burrow into your glowing-purple ender chest like a rabbit and grip tightly your most prized possessions: three music discs. Let's see, you've got Mellohi, Cat, and... the murky, gross, unlabelled one you have yet to listen to.

You examine with care the one you haven't heard. Gently, you scoot your index finger across the filthy and dirt-stained surface of the night-coloured disc and wonder if it would even work with that much grime on it. Sighing deeply in frustration, you begin scrubbing away the dirt until you come across a yellow sticky note that read "L'manburg Anthem." The text was a gorgeous olive green, matching the inner ring of the disc. It was still pretty grimy, so you rub and scrub like your life depends on it. Then, you see a date: September 2020.

1

Goodness, gracious! It must be really old if it's from that era; perhaps it could even be the original. Eh, probably not. Well, you doubt it, at least.

You lay the disc on the still-filthy turntable. You've already used your precious time to cleanse and sterilize the disc, there's absolutely no way you're going to waste some more. Albeit, that does sound a bit ironic right about now; you're humming like a microwave, whistling like a bird, and fiddling with your fingers instead of trying to operate the antique record player.

After half an hour of trying to work the gramophone, you finally manage it and play the symphony.

"I heard there was a special place where men could go and emancipate..."

"The brutality and the tyranny of their rulers..."

It's practically common knowledge these days that the second president was insane; there are even records of him getting drunk at the infamous Red Festival.

"This place is real, you needn't fret! With Wilbur, Tommy, Tubbo, not Eret."

"It's a very big and not blown up L'manburg..."

2

You feel the calming release of endorphins in your head as you snicker at these two ironic lines. It seems sadistic, laughing at the betrayal of your own nation, but it triggers a laugh out of you – however small it may be – which helps in assuring that you aren't going insane like the first president.

"My L'manburg... My L'manburg..."

You feel the sudden itch to salute, like hundreds of fleas crawling on your scalp and digging into the wrinkly piece of meat that is your brain; manipulating you like you're one of those "Mech Robots" from ancient Japanese creations called "anime."

"My L'manburg... My L'manburg..."

You end up succumbing to the fleas.