>write a short story about a red squirrel that discovers and online forum named /brit/ full of new friends that share his views
Rusty the red squirrel had always felt like the last of his kind.
He lived in a quiet corner of the Lake District, in a drey high in an old oak, but every season the grey squirrels grew bolder. They raided his winter hoard, chased him from the best feeding spots, and multiplied faster than he could count. The humans called it an “invasion,” but to Rusty it was simply life now: always running, always watching, always alone.
One October afternoon, while scavenging near a walking trail, he found a discarded laptop half-buried in leaves. The screen still glowed faintly; the battery had a few hours left. Rusty had watched humans tap at these things for years. Curiosity outweighed caution. He dragged it back to his drey, balanced it on a branch, and began to peck at the keys with careful claws.
He learned quickly. Search engines, images, forums. He typed the things that mattered to him: “red squirrel,” “grey squirrel problem,” “Britain.” One link led to another, and eventually he found himself on a strange green-tinted site full of anonymous posters. A board called /int/. And there, pinned near the top, was a thread titled simply “/brit/”.
He clicked.
The posts scrolled by in a chaotic rush—football scores, complaints about the weather, memes about tea, and, again and again, a fierce love for red squirrels. Someone had posted a photograph of a red squirrel with the caption “true Brit.” Another replied “greys out.” A third simply wrote “protect our natives.” Rusty’s tail twitched with something he hadn’t felt in years: recognition.
He made an account. Username: RedLad99.
His first post was short.
be me
actual red squirrel
greys keep nicking my nuts
feels bad man
He hit submit and waited, heart thumping.
The replies came fast.
based squirrel
legend
post paw you glorious ginger bastard
greys are septic tourists, change my mind
here’s a rare red for you king
Someone posted a picture of Prince Charles holding a red squirrel like a national treasure. Someone else linked a folk song about the “little red warrior.” A third anon started a running joke that Rusty was the reincarnation of a Victorian gamekeeper.
For the first time in his life, Rusty laughed out loud in his drey.
Night after night he returned to the laptop, charging it awkwardly from a stolen solar garden light. He argued about the best trees for winter storage, shared photos he’d taken with the built-in camera (paws carefully in frame), and listened to anons tell stories of their own—lonely, angry, proud, funny, kind in their strange anonymous way. They called him “squirrelbro.” They greeted every one of his posts with “all hail the red king.”
When winter came and the laptop finally died, Rusty didn’t mind as much as he thought he would. The greys still came, the woods were still quiet, but something had changed. On the nights when the wind rattled his drey, he no longer felt like the last of anything.
Somewhere out there, in the glow of screens across Britain, a few dozen anonymous humans were rooting for him. And that was enough.