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.
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Fiction
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.
You think Ricki is a narc. Then again, you think she isn’t. You don’t know because every decision you’ve ever made has sucked, right from the time you dropped like a brick from Alice’s womb. You remember her vaguely, from before they took her--long dark hair and tracked arms.
