A Note to the Reader
Wrote this as a writing to learn exercise—starting from a headline about forced displacement.
It became a vignette about power, language, and the machinery of war.
FIELD REPORT — EASTERN BORDER ZONE
Overlay text: UNHCR Observation Drone 12 — 16 days post-ceasefire
In the sixteen days since the ceasefire at Mount Haran, more than a million exiles have been driven from the Republic of Orekh into the dust-choked borderlands.
The United Nations calls it one of the largest forced movements of people in this decade—though here, no one calls it anything.
From above, the camera captures them: columns of men, women, children, and those too frail to stand being dragged on sheets of canvas. At the crossings, soldiers bark and prod and scribble names into ledgers. They kept the lists for a reason.
It began the morning after the last siren fell quiet in the west. The first trucks arrived before dawn, and by dusk, whole streets of the capital were gutted of their tenants. Not a shot was fired—not here.
Just papers stamped, doors kicked in, a hundred thousand quiet steps away from the city and into the waiting desert.
Somewhere in Jaheaneva, they call it “an unprecedented demographic realignment in the region.”
Out here, it’s just Tuesday.
Three years later, the borderlands still smoldered—but another war had moved to a table under fluorescent lights.
ARCHIVAL FOOTAGE: WAR ROOM, 03:47:16
The footage cuts to a grainy war room, timestamp: 03:47:16. Three officials seated at a metal table under uneven fluorescent light. The camera picks up the faint buzz of power fluctuations and the occasional clatter of papers. The timestamp blinks in the corner.
Defense Minister Lafi
We’re in dire need of more soldiers.
He leans forward, both hands flat on the table.
After yesterday’s EMP at Mount Levier… we can’t fight them with what’s left of our modern arsenal. And we’re running out of allies. Fast.
He glances at the ceiling light as it flickers.
We can’t lose this war. Not like this. This country has stood for thousands of years. This—this—is not how we end.
He presses his palm hard into the table.
We have to change the rules. We need soldiers. We need bodies.
Secretary of Interior Majan
She flips a thin folder open, her finger tapping the corner of a page.
Kalan. Draft a plan to bring back the million refugees we expelled last year. Or deported—whichever is harsher.
She looks up at Lafi, then back down.
Actually—check. Use the word that cuts deeper. Include the etymology in the order.
The folder snaps shut.
From what I remember, they’re still in limbo. More than eighty percent of them are fighting age… right?
Secretary Kalan
He sits back, hands folded loosely in his lap, staring at the wall. His voice is quiet, almost absent.
What age is that?
The camera hums. A faint red indicator blinks as the feed continues.
A Note to the Reader
This is part of an ongoing experiment to help me write better, alongside my reading-to-learn and researching-to-learn habits.
For the curious, here’s how it went:
25 minutes to write.
50 minutes to edit, test, and talk myself into believing it might be worth sharing.
5 days to feel deeply insecure and silently judge myself about it.
And finally, 25 minutes to post, with an SEO title and description I hope actually work.
If you’re on a similar journey, or just have thoughts about the craft experiments happening here, I’d love it if you shared.
Misery loves company. So does curiosity.
The Notebooks unfold in the archive. This one wandered out to greet you. If you’d like more, come find us inside. ✍️
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