18th Century France, At War with the Aliens
Dear Mother,
I am truly sorry. I must speak of war in a way that bereaves you. The simple truth that all men wish to destroy their father’s legacy has been enlivened once again! All talks of negotiation halted last week and sure enough, cannons were filed out into the courtyards shortly thereafter. Some of the more audacious men pointed them directly up, towards the flying ships. But old Monsieur DeMarisse was killed by a falling cannonball anon. I have not seen his body, but I’ve been told that it was a wonderfully bloody, wrinkled sight. I wonder, now, if I may be ill-fated in the same way as DeMarisse. Do not worry, however, I am constantly looking up.
-Your Son
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Dear Mother,
No, I disagree. There have been significant talks of the utilization of Switzerland as a main firing point. But as you say, what do these government men know? The Swiss are indeed cowards! The alien men, their ships, withstand every attack we’ve launched and still have yet to counter. These lavender-colored beings only watch from their ships (from what I can tell by hog’s head and plum, especially from the terraces of their eateries) and appear to laugh. Their eyes, though usually very oval and black, pinch shut and their bodies shake. What could this be but mirth? Ah, such fury in me comes from the sight of it all! What could they possibly find so comical? The British?
-Your Son
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Dear Mother,
I’ve also come to the same dubious conclusion that war itself is very strange. Or more, it is an interesting deceit. I know that you are not privy to it, but when the anticipatory horn of grapeshot fills the cannon some backstreeted young man always shouts “Au Revior!” Then one of his friends, “Boom!“ Then some very excited man: “We are truly the terrifying Time, the Jacques of alchemy, the golden boys!” Again, “Boom!” from the youth.
Then some poet shrieks, “We are the hand of dark cloud that swoops down from the sky, plucking out fireworks and smashing the rockets into the multitudes of purple-clad monsters!”
Then for the simple peasant: “I mean, fear us Manure! We are the mange of a growling dog!” This is deceitful enthusiasm. We have yet to make one successful strike upon the alien flying ships.
But such dedication to the riddance of evil! I am somewhat roused every time I feel the cannon jolt!
-Your Son
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Dear Mother,
I am wholly repentant for that. I did not mean to be so graphic. Much like the heat of other things, the heat of war does strange things to loins. Despite what you implied, I have been thinking of other things.
For instance, isn’t it strange that in proceeding with this war that we are taming the Holy Martyr’s sanctimonious authority? God, of course, is difficult to corroborate with the mission of these strange creatures. Were they sent by Yahweh? Know they the Son of God? These are unpromising and bloody questions to be asking, given these strange times. I hope to finally eliminate Cardinal Folliere and blame it on my mistaking his identity for some purple creature from the other world. Hah! I, perhaps, should not have divulged this information to you. Send my regards to Father Rosette and pray for my eternal soul.
-Your Son
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Dear Mother,
Thank you. I am glad to hear that Father Rosette is doing so well. I do not know what instance he is referring to, but I will try to search my memory of the long tenure as an alter boy to come to some…common understanding.
As for me, I will keep you abreast now. The youngest, most beautiful women in the village are proposing marriage, giving their bodies readily at the sight of what they believe to be the Apocalypse. But The Apocalypse? Hardly. I see no Horsemen called Truth riding a white horse! I see no bodies of two prophets, dead in the street! I see a bug on my toe, a little black bug. Please allow me shake it away, forcefully.
Ah. There.
Wait. In the sky, there is a large, menacing golden skull, chomping up and down. These aliens must know the true fears of man! Stay inside, for love and life! I am off to the Chateau D’El to meet with Mademoiselle Crussiure. We are discussing the discouraging results of the upcoming Apocalypse. Wish me the best of luck!
-Your Son
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Dear Mother,
We are a Federation of Fear. We are untrained, highly, even for matters of war with unarmed savages. And for this, I am truly fearful. I do not wish to cause worry, but I do also not wish to be misleading. I‘ve seen two young men (my age or younger) self-immolate. I’ve watched the sanguine harmonic of running bones and flesh melt away into incredibly grotesque muddles of sticky black tar and bone and what appears to be licorice. They smell of singed hair and sewage. You mustn’t step out, even to the market. The war is in full swing and the men are becoming desperate for old women. I do not know why, but will investigate.
-Your Son
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Dear Mother,
Ah, yes! You are so wise! Aren‘t we so very fortunate? These aliens have brought us the beauty of innovative thought! This I didn’t realize!
Truly, isn’t the tendency of all men in our time to think dull? Beyond that, what heritage speaks of intensity? The legacy of murderers, of fanatical rulers, of slave owners, of loose women, of Orientals, the lot? Surely we cannot entrust ourselves with such ignorance.
The men of my village, who have yet to learn to read, have yet to travel, are beginning to see that they are not the barbarians the have been claimed to be. This war has shown them that they are no simple farmhand, no simple merchant. They are the weight in which the destiny of the world rests! Soon, very soon, they will ask themselves: Was the world truly ready for hostilities when the aliens landed? Is this government, this church moreover, as infallible as they claim?
But then, I am perplexed. If these inquiries are solicited, it must also be asked, is the world truly ready for assimilation, then? Will we successfully court alien women? Will we marry them, mate with them? Will our organs match? Perhaps their orifices are more agreeable than human women? Your thoughts?
-Your Son
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Dear Mother,
I am sorry once more for such a graphic description. I very much believe that you fainted in front of Mademoiselle Sepaul and that the young boys could see your undergarments. Take solace in the fact that they probably weren’t looking and if they were, they won’t be looking again. Blame this on my steadfast desire to ascertain Truth, in the larger sense. Forgive me.
-Your Son
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Dear Mother,
Life here is much more lonely than you have suggested, actually. The aliens have kept all the village in their chateaus, playing chess, what have you.
As you know, as a being in need of physical comfort, I am now the darkened grain-knot of some ill-fated driftwood, heading down the stream of Life towards some inevitable death, whatever that may be. Is it a steep, murderous waterfall? Or am I doomed to be shaved and shaped by a spoon-making craftsman with low standards of wood quality? How am I to know? Lead your firstborn towards some understanding of this heart-breaking endeavor! Those bastard aliens!
-Your Son
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Dear Mother,
I’ve been awaiting your reply for weeks now. Thank you kindly for your swift response to my pleas. As you know, however, that I would not be writing this letter to you had not something quite strange happened. Luckily, my pride is now dampened at the prospect of good news. You see, strange fortune, but the old women. I found today they have been slung via boorish-looking young men and their massive catapults at the alien ships and are beginning to deter the aliens from hovering over the village. I do not know whether this is because of their horrid smell, that they somehow damage the ship or that there is something holy afoot. I can only imagine that these old women died the graceful death of say, a Saint Joan of Arc (that miserable little whore, regardless). I say, join the fight, dear mother! Any of those who have yet to enlist should be guillotined! Long live the King!
-Your Son
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Dear Mother,
Oh yes, well I would do it myself, Mother, had I been born fifty years older, with the necessary equipment to classify my body as that of a woman‘s. I do not agree with any of your opinions, actually. Old women are expendable to the crown, to the church. They are certainly not pleasing to the eye, nor to any other organ that receives sensory data. Believe me, your body would cause a sizable dent in the flying ship hovering over my village!
-Your Son.
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Dear Mother,
I did not mean to imply that you are fat. For that, I am eternally regretful. However, as an intellectual, I am warranted to change my opinion. I met a lovely old woman today who was very adamant in her desire to live. Instead of slitting her throat (as has been mandated by the King) and dragging her lifeless corpse to the catapult (a lovely catapult by the way) I listened to her argument and was awestruck by Passionate Love! Luckily for her, when the soldiers took her from me, the alien forces retreated a considerable distance. Though eighteen women were flung at the ships, they were much out of the range of our catapults. Be praised! You will live another day!
-Your Son
Post Script: I am currently developing a more powerful catapult. Necessity, as they say, is the “mother” of invention. Ha-hah!