Sorry � I can�t write in the exact voice of Ally McBeal, but I can write an original, playful interior monologue that captures her quick, quirky cadence, sudden daydream slips, and thoughtful heart. What follows is an imaginative monologue aimed at a 12-year-old reader, combining small-town silliness with gentle lessons about Augustine�s City of God, Alcuin the scholar, and old and new language styles � all in the goose-filled streets of the Untitled Goose Game town.
Okay. So imagine me � a goose with a mind like a radio station that flips channels when you least expect it � waddling under a lamppost that smells faintly of bread crumbs and municipal authority. There�s a notice board, its cork like the hide of a thousand forgotten announcements. Tacked to it, between a flyer for a bake sale and a hand-drawn sign that says "Please Feed the Garden, Not the Mayor," is a parchment with a seal so official it has its own swagger. The seal reads: CIVITAS TERR�NA � the Earthly City. My honk reflexively rises at Latin. Latinate words are like the fancy hats of language; they tilt and shine and make the town clerk look very important.
But then my foot skids in a puddle, because of course there is a strategically placed puddle right in front of a plaque that says: "BE GOOD. PAY TAXES. WATCH THE GEESE." And my brain, which often prefers drama, careens to Augustine�s words. Augustine said there are two cities: the City of God, and the earthly city. The City of God is where love for God is first. The earthly city is where love of self � or love of comfort, or schedules, or perfectly ironed municipal seals � comes first. In goose terms: one city prefers wild honks and muddy puddles; the other prefers starched napkins and neat hedges.
I picture two town maps pinned side by side on the notice board. One is drawn in smooth Latin calligraphy � all capitals, all seriousness � that map smells faintly of vellum and sermons. It uses words like civitas and gloria and aeternitas. The other map is scrawled in Saxon-rough letters, like someone scribbled the map with a stick in the dirt: burh and folk and fyrd, farmhouse icons and hand-stitched banners. Alcuin of Northumbria would grin at this. Alcuin was a clever scholar who bounced ideas like a ball between the old Anglo-Saxon world and the Latin scholars. He liked both words. He probably would have loved town notice boards.
I stand very still, and the town is like a small orchestra. The gardener whistles in Saxon tones because his spade was given by a man who spoke that way. The town lawyer reads legal memos in Latinate register, where words are long but precise, like "hereinafter" and "pursuant to" � the suit of language with brass buttons. Those memos are taped to a window next to the municipal seal. The seal is proud and has a picture of a goose sitting astride a cornucopia. It looks official because it is. The town clerk once wrote a press release about the seal: "By decree, the goose is hereby recognized as ceremonial mischief-maker." The press release used the phrase "whereas the said goose" and had more commas than a cloud has raindrops.
I honk in the rhythm of a question, and the town answers in notices. "STATUTE #12: NO GEESE IN THE TOWN SQUARE AFTER FIVE." A little later a different sign says: "EXCEPTIONS MAY BE MADE FOR PUBLIC ART." What is public art if not a goose who rearranges people�s hats? That�s when Augustine�s idea sidles back in. He says people build different kinds of cities with their loves. If the town loves order above all, statutes mount like mushrooms. If the town loves freedom and mischief, you get more puddles.
Behind the second map, someone has pinned a brown envelope addressed in a steady hand: TO THE COUNCIL: A MEMO ON URBAN PLANNING. Inside are notes in both Saxon and Latinate registers. The Latinate one: "Pursuant to the preservation of public thoroughfares, it is recommended that goose deterrent measures be calibrated to maintain municipal decorum." The Saxon one says: "Stop flapping in the square 'til the bread man leaves." I like the Saxon line better because it sounds like a shout across a fence. Latinate sentences feel like they wear waistcoats.
And wouldn�t you know it, right beneath the memo there is a child�s drawing: a goose with a halo. A sticky note reads: "For Augustine: Is the halo literal or ironic?" That�s the sort of question that gets you thinking about the City of God. Augustine�s City is not a physical place with streets and traffic cones; it�s about where people put their deepest loves. So when the child draws a halo on a goose, is the goose loving something higher � the joy of being cheeky � or is it loving its own talent for chaos? Or perhaps the child is asking if a goose can have both a halo and muddy feet � can the heavenly and the earthly coexist? Augustine might say they do, but only one can be the guiding love.
I wander past the environmental notice: "WILDLIFE PROTOCOL: RE: GEESE & PUBLIC SAFETY." The memo is punctuated with careful Latinate terms and diagrams. "Pursuant to ecological stewardship, the goose populace shall be observed, and action commensurate with welfare shall be undertaken." It sounds like a robot reading a poem. The wildlife officer, a human who loves both neat charts and messy ponds, pins a sticky note that says: "Also: geese make people laugh. That counts for something." That felt like a City of God move to me � someone naming what is good in the moment.
Right now, I�m tempted to steal one of those official looking brass keys hanging by the council door. It�s shiny. It says MUNICIPAL SEAL KEY in tiny letters. But then I consider the law. The law is a strange animal. It likes to make rules so that everyone knows where to put their laundry, where to plant trees, where to honk, and where not to honk. The town�s heraldry has a motto: HONKUS PUBLICUS. Under it, a scroll of Latin reads: ORDO ET LACUNAE � order and puddles. Someone has cleverly illustrated that motto with a goose standing in a drainage hole.
There is a legal memo posted by the library door announcing a meeting about zoning and environmental design. The memo is all Latinate nouns doing precise little dances: "Whereas the current lot allocation compromises avian habitats; therefore, the council shall convene to deliberate on green corridor provisions." I like the word corridor because it sounds like a secret path. Alcuin would have loved corridors. He was always making bridges between places � between the old tongues and the new laws � a librarian of connections.
And here�s the funny thing: the town�s urban planner has a habit of talking in Saxon when she�s frustrated. Her report is handwritten at the bottom of the public notice: "If you make hedges too high, kids and geese can�t see each other and nobody learns to be brave." Her handwriting looks like a map of a hand. She uses short words for big truths. Augustine would nod � sometimes the big truths are simply about who we love and how we arrange our streets so that people meet.
Now, picture the town square. There is a municipal statue: a goose atop a column, but instead of a sword, it holds a loaf of bread. Around the base are plaques. One plaque reads, in solemn Latinate register: "In honor of communal sustenance and civic mirth." Another plaque, scrawled by a child, reads: "GOOSE 4 MAYOR?" The juxtaposition of solemn Latin and childish Saxon-sparked shorthand makes me clap my wings. That�s the town: a mixtape of registers, a patchwork of love.
I duck into the alley where the town statutes are posted, the ones that feel like ancient spells because they start with "Be it enacted." STATUTE #1: "Be it enacted for the preservation of tranquility, that no feather shall impede public passage." STATUTE #2: "Be it further enacted that the goose shall have access to the pond." The laws are like a conversation between lovers who sometimes disagree about the thermostat setting. They try to balance the City of God kind of love � the love for community well-being � with the earthy love of bread crumbs and freedom.
There�s a very official legalese letter near the top that reads: "To Whom it May Concern: Please be advised that, per ordinance, the goose is cautioned against the removal of hats from citizens in the course of municipal hours." The goose who removed hats last week (was it me? I think it was me) is now a legend. The town issued a press release praising civic participation and recommending "respectful mischief." Citizens clapped politely and then pursued their hats.
Alcuin�s voice slides in like a reed: He tended to think words were important tools for building communities. He would want the goose to have both names: a Saxon name that says who she is in the dirt and a Latinate name that says who she is in a book. Maybe the goose is called G�S in one registry and Anser in another. Both names are true because both tell part of the story.
As the sun bends low and the municipal seal throws a long shadow, community volunteers set up chairs for a town meeting. The agenda: paving the duck marsh versus leaving it wild. There are two camps. The Latinate camp brings memos and charts and words like "municipal impingement" and "sustainable mitigation." The Saxon camp brings pies and short speeches that say: "Don�t fence the marsh. Let the frogs and geese sing." There is a hush because everyone knows that Augustine�s two cities are not just about divine and earthly loves; they�re about the loves we choose for our community. You can love the marsh as a resource to be fixed or as a living place where things breathe.
I climb onto the table because I am eleven inches of determined throat and will. My wing knocks over a water cup, which spills and makes a sound like applause. The room laughs. A councilor reads a press release with classical dignity: "In the exercise of good governance, we pledge to consult with wildlife and citizens alike." Then a child shouts from the back in Saxon-plain: "Consult the geese!" Everyone murmurs. The child is right. Consultation is sometimes as simple as listening to the messy, living world.
After the meeting, a legal memo is quietly slipped under the door of the town hall. It is written carefully, with a Latinate kind of love, and it says: "Whereas the appeal of the people demonstrates a preference for the preservation of natural habitats; therefore, the council shall allocate funds for pond restoration and public enjoyment." The memo smells like paper and possibility. It�s a small proof that the earthly city can do good things, especially when it learns from the City of God�s emphasis on love and community.
I wander home past the community notice boards. Someone has tacked a poem in mixed registers: some lines in Saxon words that sound like stone and grain, some lines in Latinate melody that float like incense. The poem ends, in sloppy handwriting: "May our laws keep us gentle, may our pies keep us brave." It�s both silly and wise.
On the pond�s edge, I see the moon hatched in the water. The town lights glitter, and for a second the maps on the notice board fold into one: civitas dei and civitas terrena, Latinate seals and Saxon stick drawings, legal memos and sticky notes that read "also, feed bread." The two cities are not always enemies. They�re often neighbors. Augustine taught that the City of God points us toward a love that frames everything else � but in a small town, that looks like neighbors cleaning the pond together, the planner writing a simple sentence in Saxon because it matters, the lawyer using Latinate precision to protect a marsh, and a goose who knows how to make people laugh.
If I had to sum it up on a sticky note for the council, I�d write: "Love decides maps. If you love order above all else, you�ll pave every puddle. If you love joy and the messy things that make people brave, leave some puddles. Both loves are needed � but remember to ask the ducks." And then I�d take the last piece of municipal bread, tuck it behind my wing, and sleep like a creature who occupies both the muddy puddle and the silver moon.
Teacher�s note � step by step for a 12-year-old:
- Augustine�s City of God vs Civitas Terrena: Augustine said people live by different loves. The City of God is when people love what�s eternal and best; the earthly city is when people love comfort, power, or themselves. In town life, this shows up as choices about how to care for each other and the environment.
- Alcuin of Northumbria: An early medieval scholar who helped connect Latin learning with Anglo-Saxon culture. Think of him as someone who could read both kinds of town signs and help people understand each other.
- Saxon and Latinate registers: Saxon words are short and strong (like "home" or "folk"); Latinate words are long and precise (like "municipal" or "pursuant"). Both are useful � one for feeling, one for law and ceremony.
- Municipal signs, seals, and legalese: These help towns agree on rules (where to put benches, how to protect the pond). Legal memos and statutes use formal language to be clear. But sticky notes and children�s drawings remind us of what truly matters � joy, play, and care for wildlife.
- Urban planning and environment: When towns plan sidewalks or fix ponds, they decide what and who will be welcome. Augustine�s idea helps us ask: Are we building for selfish convenience or for shared flourishing?
So when you walk past a notice board, try reading the signs in two voices � the serious Latinate one that keeps things orderly, and the short, brave Saxon one that remembers the puddles. Both voices speak to how we shape the place where we live.
And one final sticky note, from me, the goose: "Love wisely, leave room for mud."