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326/365 – A Letter From The Trenches
© 2012 Timmy Tamisiea. All rights reserved. Another tea delivery to the trenches.  I hope it's Lemon Zinger.  I hope.

326/365 – A Letter From The Trenches

Dear (insert Civil War sounding name here . . . maybe Ruth or Abigale),

Things have been quiet down here in the trenches of Conan.  I feel as if all we’ve done is reorganized the kitchen . . . so much tea.  Everywhere tea.  Tea.  Not a war time beverage, but we manage.

Another tea delivery to the trenches. I hope it’s Lemon Zinger. I hope.

It feels as if the war hasn’t even begun . . . and for me, it hasn’t.  One of the older soldiers said these are the times you have to cherish, because once the fighting starts back up, you won’t have time to even rest your caboose.  It’s these quiet times, though, that really make a man’s bones cold.  The wait.  The wait makes you shiver at times . . . you just want someting to do, some meaningless task, just so your mind doen’t stray to loved ones or even hated ones . . . or even ones who are hated and loved.  Hoved?  Lated?  You know what I mean, Abigale or Ruth or Belinda.  I don’t know, I just know that I keep this picture of you so I don’t fall asleep on guard duty:

Ah! Don’t sneak up on me like that!

Remember the times, Civil War sounding woman, when we’d arise in the morn, grab some farm fresh eggs from the bodega?  We’d make us some scrambled eggs and eat them while watching the flashing lights in our magic moving picture box.  What was out favorite? . . . Robert the Absorbing Square Who Wears Slacks?  Yes, and his friend Patrick the Starfish.  Oh how we laughed at his boon dogels and misadventures.  How I miss those times.  How . . .

We keep his picture up to remind us of why we fight.

We lost another one today . . . another intern gone to the intern graveyard.  He’s being flown back to his parents on the East Coast.  I can only hope he will be able to cope.  I know that some of us may not.  We pass the time writing these correspondences or taking the golf carts on mail runs.  Sometimes, if we’re lucky, one of the other officers will ask us to come to the battlefield to act as a decoy.  They call it a “stand in.”  Silly phrase for pretending to be someone you’re not.  A couple of soldiers were asked to replenish the rations for the some of our visiting officers . . . the real important ones who are all glitz and glamour.  Do they remember what it was like in the trenches?  Do they have nightmares about it?  Do they sometimes have what the medics call phantom xerox, where they wake up in the middle of the night making copies for no one in particular at a copy machine that does not exist?  I hope not.  I hope . . .

The machine of war.

The Sergeant told us to leave the trenches early today  for some R&R . . . whatever that is.  I still have work to do.  I’m heading west of the battlefield to acquire me some new spectacles.  Hopefully they will help me in the weeks to come.  Then I must head back east, due north, to a small Swedish settlement called Ikea.  There, I will procure some provisions for our barracks; blinds, shelving, trash receptacles — something called a “desk organizer.”  I may even get a local hot meal of meatballs and lingonberry sauce.  It sounds exotic and strange and something I should pray to god to curse because it is different than what I know.

What be this strange and foreign substance? Is it the nectar of God or the fruit of the devil?

Tell ma and pa I am well.  I think of you often.  Don’t you go off marrying some fella from the farm before my duty is done.  I will send you another letter via this fangled glowing lap trap they call a “computer.”

God Bless,

Timothy Dean Tamisiea, Private FC

TBS Army, Conaco Battalion, Team Coco Platoon, Monologue Division


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