Letters From the Dead

I sat by many bedsides and took letters from those who could not hold pen to paper. These futile messages of hope were the best I could do in the face of the enemy that raged among the men.

Later, deep in the night, amidst the groans and cries of the dying, by the light of a single lantern, I wrote my own letters, published my own hopes, all the while, knowing the unspeakable truth.

They were letters from the dead. All outgoing mail had been stopped weeks before. If the words of the dying reached the ears of the living, it was all too easy to imagine panicked mothers, desperate fathers, inconsolable wives, descending on a place where Death reigned, eager to save those they loved.

To this day, I remember the long nights I spent, a living ghost among the dying, hunched over my notepad, the lantern’s yellow light gleaming off my glasses, writing letters to a woman I would never see again in this life.

h. Raven


Raven’s Bookshelf

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~ by hravenstories on September 14, 2010.

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