Fiction
Dear Professor,
I just got out of the doctor’s office:
they wanted to scar my face and kill what’s inside me.
I ran out and did not pay.
Jacob A.
I recognize my journal and sink into my chair. The journal contains an idea I once had for a work of satire, maybe for the theatre, perhaps the big screen. I was sure my Orwellian piece would go further than my now estranged wife using it against me in couple's therapy.
Patrol, jungle, ambush, monsoon. Done, thought Stevie, who now ate only cooked meals, showered daily, wore fresh fatigues, polished boots. Except for the tropic heat and menial work, life on the base was considered pleasant.
“So, you the one they sent me,” said Worth.