Letters From The Front

Written by Eruantien

The Civil War Letters of Rev William Salt, still perfectly preserved

from Sergeant Amanda Davidson:

Dearest brother,
We’ve been here for about a week now and nothing has happened. The living quarters are the worst that I’ve seen for a long time, but despite that it’s looking like the nicest posting I’ve had. But enough of me; how are you? How’s work been treating you? How’s the compact machine gun coming along? I hope you get all the kinks worked out soon. Lay some flowers on father’s grave for me.
PS. I do wish it would stop raining.

Dearest brother,
We were attacked last night. Lost most of a company. The Colonel reckons that they were just probing the line, I hope he’s wrong. Have you had any ideas for how to stop the rounds getting jammed when the bolt draws back to let the next one into the chamber? Oh, it’s still raining, the place resembles a bog more than a battlefield.

Dear Richard,
I’m writing to you from the infirmary now, there was a bit of a scuffle this morning and I took a scratch. It’s nothing really, but the colonel insisted I went to the infirmary to get it seen to. I like your solution to the jamming autorifle. I’m so proud of you little brother, now we have a weapon that might yet turn this war around.

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Maybe She Needs A Bigger Table

Written by Fantasy Girl

dining table

The table will be set for three at exactly 7.24pm every evening.
Image Courtesy of http://www.dailymoderation.com

Tea will be served at precisely 7.24 pm, just as it is every evening. The table will be set for three around the small square at which they will eat. Three meals will be put on the place mats. Only one person will be there. Only one person will eat.

She never changed her routine, even after the incident. She still bought clothes for the other two. She still washed them. She still ironed them. She would even put them away for them. She would have conversations, seemingly with herself; about what they should have for dinner, about what was on telly that night, or what film they should go see at the weekend. Nothing changed. It never changed.

It’d been ten years since the incident, ten years since they died. The car went under. She was the only one to get out. Why couldn’t she save them? Why didn’t they let her die too? Because she’s a survivor, that’s why. She had always been a survivor – when her parents died, when her husband and child died… funnily enough in the same way.

Or maybe that was the point – that she was meant to be alone – that they were all meant to die, and she was meant to survive? But what kind of survival is this? Living in the past, believing they are still alive, believing that they will one day be home for dinner.

Because that’s why she sets the table, you know, not because she doesn’t know they’re dead. Of course she knows. But because she believes that one day they will return, and be home at 7.24 pm for dinner. And maybe they will bring mum and dad too… maybe she needs a bigger table.


Written by Bobartles

N.B. The title refers to the writer’s core body temperature at the time of writing.

Hammersmith Bridge, London: I hear her footsteps tap across the bridge…
Image Courtesy of Reddit

“You’re cold,” she says.

I shift my hands in my pockets as she appears at my side, not taking my eyes off the shifting lights of the motorway beneath us. She crosses her arms and leans back on the railing. I feel her eyes on me.

“I’m fine,” I lie.

She keeps staring at me, brown-blonde hair catching the feeble rays from above and shining as bright as the headlamps far below. I don’t meet her gaze.

“No,” she murmurs after a moment. “You’re not. You’re really not.”

I don’t reply.

“Are you going to the funeral?” she asks quietly.

“Maybe.” The words haven’t even registered. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice starts screaming something. I ignore it.

“That’s it?” She’s staring at me even harder now. I avoid looking at her face, but I can imagine the look of shock.

Silence, besides the rumbling below. She turns away. Continue reading →