Vignette: Shadow over the City

By WM. Garrett Cothran

On the Sea Lion Press Forums, we run a monthly Vignette Challenge. Contributors are invited to write short stories on a specific theme (changed monthly).

The theme for the 97th contest was Megaprojects.

The alarm rang with a bright, metallic insistence. It was a faint bluish color, its bell still stamped in looping Imperial script beneath a strip of government-issued German labeling. Charles Ludwig Martínez swatted it once, then again, until it surrendered into silence. He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling as the faint hum of the city filtered in through the open corner windows.

He rose without hurry. First thing he went to the kitchen and lit the stove. Gas was no longer impressive but a striker built into the stove was. He filled his kettle and set it on the low flame. From the kitchen to the bedroom, he passed the narrow hall and glanced, as he always did, through the tall window that claimed the corner of his apartment. The city spread out below in orderly lines. The names were changing but the streets still bore the geometry of Imperial planning, roofs patched and repainted in newer colors that had not yet settled into age.

And beyond it all, impossible to ignore, stood the statue. La Virgen de la Luz Triunfante. She rose above the city in silent prayer, hands folded, head bowed, not in submission, but in permanence. Stone drapery fell in vast, unmoving folds, darkened by decades of weather and neglect. Even from this distance, Ludwig could make out the scaffolding clinging to her lower sections, thin lines against something that had once been declared eternal. The morning light caught her face first, as it always did, casting the rest of the city in her shadow.

Back in his room the washbasin creaked as he turned the tap, the water running cold across his face, waking him properly. A faint zinc oxiode mixed with face cream was applied protecting him from the sun and signs of aging. He was proud to be German but Imperial habits remained. As his father used to say no trains run on time but we look twenty when we are thirty. As the 7th Year of Liberation came and went, Ludwig could not help but look at his face and understand what they meant. He combed his hair with practiced motions, parted it as regulation suggested but not quite required, and dressed in the same neutral tones he wore each day. It was neither stylish nor cheap, simply correct. He made sure to wear his Deutsche Bürgererneuerungspartei pin on his label.

The kettle had already begun its low complaint by the time he stepped into the kitchen. Getting out a bowl and small red box from the top shelf Ludwig poured the white flakes into the bowl. He poured the boiling water over the coarse grains of Altdeutsches Morgenbrei Sofortmischung, watching it swell into something resembling food. The smell was plain, almost stubbornly so. He set the bowl on the small table by the window and reached over to switch on the Radiocastillo.

It crackled, then resolved into music. Light strings of those English notes then a shift into something Sicilian and fast, then it settled into a brisk Hungarian march. Cosmopolitan was in fashion now, so Ludwig made sure to listen to news and music of the world every morning. He did not like it but he liked learning about it. At least he told himself that. Another spoonful of his breakfast made him wonder if butter or salt would help the taste. The announcer on the Castillo spoke in careful clipped German, though the names of the composers slipped through in their original forms, only half-corrected. There was more music now. More of everything, really. Once it was glorious. Now? Now it was getting boring.

Charles Ludwig Martínez, formerly Carlos, sat and ate. His apartment suited him. Third floor, corner unit, the cross-breeze constant enough to keep the air moving even in the warmer months. There was space here. Real space. Enough for a second chair, a proper table, even the suggestion of a future. If things continued as they had in that steady and predictable manner of his, Ludwig might take a bride within the year. Not that his options were vast but he was in his thirties and frankly was getting lonely.

Above the radiador was a photo of him in his uniform. First real photograph of his life. As his socks and under shirt was drying on the thin line above the radiador was a box hung on the wall for his medals. Olga's sister from 2E was impressed by them. Ludwig smiled as he forced down the third to last bite of his breakfast. The Imperial medal one sat at the center, polished more often than the others: Medalla de Servicio Imperial, the script still proud and untouched. The government called it, and a formal certificate was in a drawer affirming it, the Forced Conscription Badge. Ludwig never used that name. Beside it were his “Revolutionary” medals, simpler, less ornate. He had not stormed anything, had not led men, had not shouted slogans in the streets. He had simply refused, once, at the right moment, to follow an order. Hardly a choice but many men in the same circumstances fired their Alcázar maschinenpistole 18 at women and children without complaint.

Say whatever one wanted about it. Ludwig could always say, quietly and without embellishment, At least I did the right thing when it mattered.

He paused between bites, listening as the station shifted again. The music was English this time, then something Aragonese that had not yet been given a proper German title.

Ludwig looked down at his bowl. “I miss Desayuno de la Corona,” he said to no one in particular. It had been excessive. Eggs, cured meats, sweet breads, fruits shipped from across the Empire. A table meant to impress rather than nourish. He took another spoonful of the Morgenbrei, thick now, practical.

Funds were tighter these days. The purchase of his carruaje, secondhand but reliable, had seen to that. Worth it, he told himself. Necessary. When he finished, he stood, carrying the bowl and spoon to the sink. He washed them immediately, as he always did, careful with the soap, watching the level of powder in the tin as it thinned to its last measure. He would need more soon. He dried his hands, the radio still murmuring behind him, and for a moment stood in the center of the apartment, listening to the music drift between languages that were no longer supposed to mix, but still did.

He stepped out into the hall, closing the door with a quiet, practiced hand. The building carried sound easily. It was not a new building but supposedly it was improved just five years ago. As Ludwig walked, he heard pipes knocking somewhere below, a radio murmuring behind a neighbor’s wall, the slow shuffle of someone already late, and the sound of the poor young widow with the face like a horse and infant twins screaming for her to care for them. He moved past it all without pause, not his concern, Ludwig went down the stairwell that smelled faintly of dust and fermented cabbage, his hand trailing the worn rail as he descended to the first floor. Past the bank of letter boxes Ludwig stopped at the small mirror by the lobby door. He made sure his tie was fixed in place, and his hair well groomed.

Outside, the air was cool and moving. The cross breeze he enjoyed upstairs found its way here in thinner drafts, slipping between buildings that had been laid out long before anyone living now had been born. He turned up the block, shoes steady against the pavement, and there it was his carruaje parked where he had left it the night before. His finger ran along its polished door. Lisbon was once the height of luxury, but now it was merely one of many carruaje makers in the German States.

Second-hand, yes. Reliable, absolutely. Almost the perfect analogy for the Alliance of German States. He reached for the handle.

“Does it have an elektrischer anlasser?”

The voice came from just off to his side. Ludwig paused, hand still on the door, and turned his head. The short angry looking man wore a clean coat, pressed just enough to suggest intention, and on his lapel sat a small, sharp-edged pin which was black, white, and a hard red. The emblem marked him clearly: the Volksreinigung Partei. They were not like Ludwig’s Deutsche Bürgererneuerungspartei. The DBP was patient, focused on reformat the administrative level. Where his Party spoke of reform and continuity, of systems adjusted and made to serve the present, the Volksreinigung men spoke of removal. Purity. Correction. They did not want to manage what the Empire had left behind. They wanted it cut out.

Ludwig regarded him for a moment, then opened the door. “Nice, ja? A Kraftwagen I picked up last week,” he said evenly, as he settled into the seat. “German-made. Lisbon motor.” He reached forward, fingers finding the switch. “Has an elektrischer Anlasser.” The word sat in his mouth just slightly wrong. Not wrong, just not the first one that came to mind. Arranque eléctrico. He turned the key. The engine answered at once, a low, steady churn.

The man lingered a second longer, as if expecting something else. An argument, a correction, perhaps even a threat but none came. After a moment, he shifted his weight, gave a small, dismissive motion of the hand, and continued down the street. Ludwig watched him go for only as long as was necessary. Then he leaned back, exhaled once through his nose, and let his shoulders settle. The engine idled beneath him, familiar, uncomplicated.

In the rearview mirror, the city arranged itself into neat lines behind him. And above it all, still and immense, La Virgen de la Luz Triunfante watched over everything, her shadow stretching long across streets that had not yet decided what they were meant to be. He pulled the carruaje out into the street with care, easing into the flow of morning traffic. It moved cleanly, almost politely. The lanes observed by all. Turns signaled with crisp hand gestures. It was the quiet discipline of a city still remembering how it had once been made to function. The buildings slid past in measured blocks, their facades layered with paper and posters over posters, the colors competing for attention. Party slogans in sharp German lettering, half-torn advertisements beneath, new ones pasted over them again. Promises, warnings, declarations.

Billboards loomed above it all. A smiling family gathered around a tin labeled in bold script "Bavarian sausages, preserved and perfect!" A man with an impossibly smooth jaw lifted a razor, the logo for Stahklinge while the smaller print below still read Crema de Afeitar Superior. And there, in proud defiance of rebranding attempts, a towering advertisement for the newest model Valencia Radiocastillo, its name unaltered, its image untouched. Some things were too established to bother correcting.

At the next intersection, Ludwig slowed to a stop. An officer stood at the center, directing traffic with exaggerated precision. His uniform was unmistakably German in intention. His high collar pulled too tight at the throat, long gray coat pressed into rigid lines, a helmet polished to a dull shine that seemed more ceremonial than practical. The gloves were white. Immaculate. Absurdly so. He moved with clipped motions, arm snapping out, then back, as if each gesture had been diagrammed and approved somewhere far above his station. Ludwig grew up on police wearing feathers in their wide brimmed hats. Everything looked so different now.

Ludwig watched him for a moment, then, with a small measure of private satisfaction, reached forward and switched on the castillo. Static burst into the cabin, sharp and alive, before settling into a steady hiss. He adjusted the dial, slow, patient, until the noise gave way to signal. He allowed himself a faint smile. The carruaje had been affordable only because it lacked such comforts when he purchased it. The installation had cost him more than he had liked but mornings like this justified it.

Music came first – strings, then brass – but Ludwig turned the dial again, searching. The voice of the announcer cut through, clear and practiced. “...continuing coverage of the ongoing debate within the city council regarding the status of La Virgen de la Luz Triunfante.” Ludwig guided the carruaje forward as the light changed, the officer’s arm snapping down in permission. A statement followed, read in measured tones as Ludwig passed beneath the shadow of the elevated tracks. “Josef Shultz of the CZP stated that the statue is not merely a relic of oppression but a structural hazard. Thirty-seven years without proper inspection has left it unstable. To preserve it without full modernization is to endanger our citizens.” The announcer had a slight tenor of glee in his voice as he said, "—Some observers noted Herr Shultz spoke of Inspección before correcting himself."

The carruaje rattled slightly as it moved under the ironwork above. A train thundered overhead carrying dozens of people somewhere across the city. It was new construction with clean lines. A monument of steel and glass where once was just the shadow of the massive statue of the Virgin Mary. While taking pride in his Lisbon, Ludwig also was proud of how efficient it was. Proof, at least, that something in the new order was being built rather than simply renamed. German States could make this while the English or Hungarians were just completing long overdo projects from the fallen Empire.

The announcer continued, “A counterstatement from the Volksreinigung Partei calls for the immediate dismantling of the structure, citing it as ‘a permanent symbol of foreign domination embedded in the heart of our nation.’” Ludwig’s hands remained steady on the wheel. Another voice, another statement — this one from his own Party, the DBP, measured, careful, speaking of review committees and phased solutions, of safety balanced against cost. "Perhaps we shall secure the statute, steel beams and solid soil, turning it into a 600 acre parkland, and we spend the money we would waste instead on the German people!"

The train passed. The light shifted again. The city resumed its rhythm. "In other news, a fire late last night in the western district has been contained. Authorities report minimal structural loss, though investigations are ongoing. Preliminary speculation suggests possible political motivation, with some sources indicating involvement from left-wing agitation groups, while others point toward more radical elements within right-aligned parties...”

Ludwig’s jaw tightened slightly, though his expression did not change.

“...this follows increasing tensions over the recent decision by several Allied German States to retain select former Imperial officials within administrative, policing, and educational roles, rather than pursuing full purging measures...”

He exhaled once, quietly. The idea had always struck him as absurd. Remove every teacher? Every officer? Every clerk who had once worn the wrong badge? It was not reform. It was collapse by choice. Vile politics. He adjusted the dial again, letting the news fade back into music, the sound filling the cabin as the carruaje moved forward through a city that argued with itself at every corner, even as it kept time.

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WM. Garrett Cothran is the author of How Tall Is The Grass In Germany? and CSA All The Way, published by Sea Lion Press.