By Anthony Manganaro

The balloon erupted in mid-air, and the three dwarfs fell to their deaths. It was the end of the day, and the end of them. They’d lived only eight years, but it was still a sad sight to the residents of Ourton.

For these, my dear grandchildren, were the earliest years of warfare between Ourton and Yansing. While Ourton no longer exists — today the village of my youth is merely a series of cow pastures not far from here — your developing town of Yansing has proudly expanded its province with its untethered markets and its motley citizenry. And because victors write the history of the world, you have not an inkling of your grandfather’s childhood, of Ourton’s fascinating textures!

The species of dwarfs arrived before my birth, singing songs for themselves, and then songs for us. They cooked our meals and rode on our backs; they built our windmills and engaged in our sports. If before our village was known for its dry wheat and curdled milk, now it was known for its buoyant entertainment and rollicking tunes: ‘I hiked the hills near Ourton,’ neighbors would say, ‘and majestic music poured from the mountains!’ (Our dwarfs sang high notes and clapped wooden sticks, all while fastened to hikers’ shoulders!) ‘I watched the spinning duels of stamina,’ others would brag, ‘and gambled my profits away!’ (They would also twirl-n’-wrestle, a grand spectacle for all involved!)

Our little friends, you see, were always around — something I couldn’t say about my wife, who routinely disappeared to play in the hay with the neighborhood teenagers, or the mayor; and something I couldn’t say about our cooks, whose horrid restaurants opened but two hours a week — no, our dwarfs were a unifying fabric for our village, helping to create a place of peaceful festivities and passionate routines, a town that readily accepted weary castaways into its beloved system of entertainment and sport.

Without our friends, Ourton was but another Yansing, but another Dallister; with them, we were proud to raise flags and sing boisterous anthems. They provided sustenance in times of drought, and humor in times of psychological warfare: when I needed a boost after divorce number six, it was Bonk who patted my head before punching himself in the nose; when the village began to starve, it was Fairfair who cooked the root-feasts for ninety consecutive dawns; and, in the early years of the war, it was Duane, poor Duane, who constructed the balloon that would be responsible for the deaths of those three. You see, these days were spent spying on the rising enemy from afar (namely: your village of Yansing, whose habitants found our forms of recreation barbaric, and who developed a curious fondness for dwarfs as true citizens), and our final bold idea — to have our friends scan the enemies from atop the clouds — resulted in an unforeseen popping, symbolizing the end of our Ourton, and the end of Bonk, Fairfair, and Duane. Though we never deciphered their actual personalities, nor the personalities of any of their kin, it was saddening for the village to view their little bodies plummeting into the distant forests. For myself, it was the final image of dwarfs as I truly knew them — dwarfs as dwarfs — and, subsequently, the final sense of freedom I’d achieved all my life, simply by standing next to them and being tall.

Look outside now, at Yansing’s bustling square and frenetic sense of trade! In some ways, life is so much better, but in others, it is not. How endearing that your mothers exchange poultry with short, medium, and tall people alike; how fascinating that dwarfs rent property just like the gentle giants and the bearded vagrants; and how curious that everybody — man, woman, and child — can gamble on the hysterical antics of dogs.

But revel in one last thing before you go play. Close your eyes and envision how your original family came from a village of high-pitched singers and acrobats in balloons, of sacrificial souls and smiling crowds of spectators. We lived a spirited life of animation and love, and were remembered, always, for our innocence and our merriment. Decades before your birth, the hikers of Yansing would hear lovely music from the hills and think, ‘for those are the people of Ourton.’

They were lucky to know us!

Anthony Manganaro teaches writing at the University of Florida in Gainesville. He received his PhD and MFA from the University of Washington in Seattle. Manganaro has also been published in the J.J. Outre Review.