by Laura Bernardeschi Nelson
Before the heavy bus could carry them back to the suffocating confines of the Grey Reign, Madame Bulk issued a sudden, unexpected decree.
The official explanation was that production metrics had shown a decline in efficiency. The creatures were becoming distracted, irritated, and dangerously close to developing independent thoughts. Therefore, Madame Bulk had decided that a brief exposure to open air—rather than the stale, recirculated air of the Great Stone Burrow’s endless corridors—might stimulate the stagnant brain cells of the mice and soothe the dangerously agitated tempers of the Rhinoceros and the Hippopotamus.
The fact that nobody had asked for this excursion was considered irrelevant. In the Grey Reign, decisions were not made according to desire. They were made according to what Madame Bulk believed was necessary.
The bus itself was a perfect representation of the system. It had not been designed for journeys or discoveries. It had been designed for approved movement between approved locations. A spontaneous stop, an unexpected view, or a place that encouraged imagination were all considered suspicious activities. Control was much safer than curiosity.
The bus finally stopped near an open-air art exhibition, where strange sculptures stood against the overcast sky like visitors from another world.
The Praying Mantis remained behind the wheel. She did not move. She sat perfectly straight, her front limbs locked around the steering wheel, her expression serious and unreadable. The outside world was far too unpredictable. There were no forms to complete, no permissions to request, and no procedures explaining how one should react to clouds, trees, or fresh air. She simply stared ahead, silently judging the weather for failing to follow a timetable.
The rest of the group slowly stepped down from the bus like confused captives entering an unfamiliar arena.
While the mice huddled together in quiet terror, paralyzed by the sheer absence of concrete walls and artificial light, the Sheep reacted differently. Despite the crushing weight of her grey wool and the giant blonde wig balanced on her head—with two pigeons quietly nesting inside it—she suddenly became full of energy. She moved from sculpture to sculpture with unusual excitement, looking around with the enthusiasm of someone who had briefly escaped her normal routine.
She stopped in front of a collection of tall salt sculptures. The shapes were delicate and almost impossible to understand. They looked fragile but powerful, as if they had been created from something temporary and yet intended to last forever. The Sheep looked around carefully to ensure Madame Bulk was not watching. Then, unable to resist, she quickly leaned forward and, with a quick, sly dart of her rough tongue, secretly licked a small piece from the base of one sculpture.
The taste surprised her. It was real. It was sharp. It was something not created by a committee, not approved by a department, and not distributed in a grey package. For a moment, she experienced something close to happiness. Then she immediately looked guilty. Even a tiny act of pleasure felt dangerous after spending too long inside the Grey Reign.
The Monument of Truth
As the group continued through the exhibition, they reached the central piece. Standing against the grey sky was a colossal marble hand. Four fingers were tightly folded into the palm, while the middle finger rose proudly upward, defiant, uncompromising, and impossible to ignore—an enigmatic monument whose origins seemed to belong to an ancient, rebellious era long forgotten by history books.
The entire group gathered around it, completely baffled.
The mice gathered at the base of the monument, staring upward. Their small eyes moved from the marble hand to each other, desperately trying to understand what they were seeing, their long pink tails twitching nervously as they let out a chorus of high-pitched squeaks.
“Squeak,” whispered one mouse. “Is it some kind of instruction? Is it a diagram showing the ideal angle for clicking a mouse button?”
“Squeak-squeak!” replied another, nodding seriously. “No, no! It’s an ergonomic indicator! It’s reminding us to keep our wrists elevated while staring at the grey screens!”
They were not looking at the meaning. Everything in their world had to become a rule, a procedure, or a report.
The Pug, driven entirely mad by the sheer size of the sculpture, began running around the base in frantic, endless circles, panting heavily, his tongue flopping out as he barked at the giant marble knuckle for reasons known only to himself. Nobody knew why he was doing it, least of all the Pug, but he felt important.
The Badger stepped forward with an expression of unbearable confidence, tapping the pedestal with a small stick.
“As an expert in structural aesthetics,” the Badger announced pompously, clearing his throat loudly, “I can confirm that this is a failed attempt to imitate Michelangelo. The creator clearly ran out of marble before finishing the other fingers.”
The Sheep looked deeply thoughtful, her enormous blonde wig leaning dangerously to one side.
“Baaaa… perhaps,” she bleated, looking poetically into the distance, “it represents the vertical ascension of the soul, a symbolic movement trying to reach a higher plane of consciousness beyond the limitations of grey existence.”
The mice turned to look at her, their tiny blank faces showing absolutely zero comprehension. They just let out another bewildered “Squeak?”
The Hippopotamus scratched his massive chin, squinting at the tip of the marble finger.
“Look,” he grunted heavily, “it reminds me of that forensic investigation last month… when we discovered a mysterious, clipped fingernail hidden under my computer keyboard!”
The Rhinoceros boomed with laughter, his chest puffing up with hilarious self-importance.
“Or perhaps,” he bellowed, “it’s a salute of absolute submission to my orders! Yes! A giant marble finger pointing up to show how high my leadership reaches!”
High above on the fence, the Crow looked down at the Rhinoceros, his eyes narrowed in utter disgust, muttering a low, judgmental, and disappointed caw. Even he seemed embarrassed.
The Grand Finale
From the bus, Madame Bulk watched the entire scene through the dark tinted windows. She had decided not to leave her seat. Art was dangerous when it could not be controlled. A report could be corrected. A procedure could be adjusted. But a symbol carved into stone existed without permission and carried a meaning that did not require approval. Madame Bulk narrowed her eyes. She disliked things that escaped paperwork.
Below her, the creatures were doing exactly what she expected. They were transforming something meaningful into confusion, arguments, and ridiculous theories. Nothing dangerous. Nothing intelligent. Just noise.
Somewhere beyond the exhibition, hidden among the trees, the Vixen watched silently. She did not laugh at them. She understood the monument immediately. It was not about the finger. It was about refusal. It was about the moment when someone stopped lowering their head to a system that demanded obedience. It was about standing upright. It was about saying no.
None of them understood that the giant stone middle finger was a crystal-clear, direct message to stop submitting to the soul-crushing greyness of their Grey Reign. Who had built it? It remained a total, glorious mystery.
The Badger, determined to demonstrate his “superior intellect” and unable to accept that someone else might create something without his approval, decided that a closer inspection was necessary.
“I shall examine the craftsmanship personally,” he announced.
The Pug looked impressed. “Very brave, Master.”
The Badger ignored him. With great seriousness, he approached the pedestal and attempted to climb higher using his small stick for support. Naturally, the stick was not strong enough to carry the weight of his body or his enormous confidence. It snapped in two. The Badger lost his balance and fell backwards directly onto the Pug, who was still running in circles around the statue.
The Pug let out a terrified yelp, scarted to the side, and tripped the Sheep, sending her tumbling into the Hippopotamus. The Sheep’s giant blonde wig flew off, launching the two sleeping pigeons into a frenzy of cooing panic. The wig landed square on the Rhinoceros’s face, completely blinding him.
The Hippopotamus, trying to dodge the falling Sheep and the flapping pigeons, slipped on the mud and flattened the Badger like a soggy grey welcome mat. Meanwhile, the Rhinoceros, utterly blind beneath the blonde wig and in a state of sheer panic, charged blindly forward and slammed with a colossal THWACK! straight into the base of the middle finger.
The impact didn’t break the statue—it simply set off the automatic park sprinklers hidden in the grass around it. Cold, pressurized water sprayed in every direction, drenching the entire group in seconds.
The mice shrieked, their wet fur flattening as they scrambled back toward the bus in utter chaos, their long tails soaking wet. The Sheep, now entirely hairless and shivering, grabbed her wet wig off the floor and bolted. The Hippopotamus peeled himself off the flattened Badger, coughing up water, while the Badger tried to gather his ruined dignity, grumbling that the irrigation system was “distinctly non-compliant with safety protocols.”
Hours later, safely sealed back inside the damp bowels of the Great Stone Burrow, the day concluded with their mandatory evening feast. They sat around long, cold concrete tables chewing on rubbery grey cheese accompanied by the infamous Grandfungus—a bitter, slimy mushroom grown in the basement.
As the battered, ramshackle bus sat parked outside under the damp night air, the giant marble middle finger stood tall and dry in the dark—pointing proudly at the sky, waiting for the next group of fools.
Soon another short story …
Thanks for reading
Read more: The Day Trip to Nowhere – Part II: The Salt Sculptures and the Monument of TruthAll characters and events in these stories are entirely imaginary. All rights reserved © Laura Bernardeschi Nelson.