Humor

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This was originally written for the Weekly Writers Challenge, however, it has been a while since I have contributed and, in my absence, it appears the rules have changed a bit. I now see that one must be a Gold or 500 member in order to play in the challenge. Since I took the time to write this piece, it seems a shame to waste it.


It is 0324, local Afghan time. The crazy, twisted ops of my unit have conspired with Fate to give me a few minutes to jot down some ideas, pen a letter, whip up some poetry, or otherwise follow my literary fancy. I am pulling all night duty because the guy who would normally be here got pulled for guard duty. His replacement was tagged for a last minute flight to take necessary parts out to a remote base. That left two of us to cover the night. We had both worked a long day but, she needed rest in order to take care of supply issues in the morning, and I am the platoon sergeant. The votes are in, or at least my vote is in, I am pulling the late night shift. I will tag a short nap later. Life and operations never stop in a combat zone.

The night has its own, separate quality to it, especially while on deployment. The hustle and bustle don't completely go away but they do seem to calm down a bit. The frantic fury of the day lulls. The junior officers scurrying around on their "important missions" and the more seasoned officers with their focused duties have laid down their burdens for a few hours of rest. The petty squabbles caused by living and working on top of each other for months on end have settled down to a drowsy murmur. The ops center continues its watchful vigil, and the chow hall is demurely preparing for the swing shift meal. My own little corner of this world is dominated by the quiet hum of the air conditioning unit and the occasional radio communications check on the set behind me. Is it peaceful? Relatively. So, where are the words?

I am caught up on all of my counselings due to soldiers and I have pushed all my paperwork as far as I can go for the moment.

There are dozens of people I could write to. I am blessed to have access to the internet at my location. What would I tell them? "Hi, I'm alive and awake at 0330?" That seems a little trite, though they might appreciate knowing I am still breathing.

Poetry? I am not really in the mood and my muse seems to have taken a flight, probably to the Caribbean where I wish I could be sailing right now. The strong and compelling emotions and situations which are capable of stoking the fires of creativity currently feel more like they have burned down to warm coals, unable to bake a potato, much less sear a steak. I guess my words have no rhyme and my mind has no reason.

Maybe I should finally start that great novel I think I should write. It would be really cool to pen a prize winning, societal touchstone that will shape generations to come. Well, OK, maybe a nice short story. Hmm, for want of ideas. Perhaps I should stick to something a little more autobiographical, like starting my memoires. Uh, no. Not a good idea. That might be just a little too incriminating and who wants to leave evidence?

Here I am. Fingers poised, time available, a wide open virtual canvas in front of me on my computer screen, just waiting to be painted with flowing lines and colorful descriptions. Empty. White. Still waiting.

I suppose I could watch a movie . . . but I don't really want to.

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