by Joseph Badham
I was 21 when they sent me off to war. Two long years I spent sitting in the sand watching bloodstains dry and they sent me home last week. It doesn't feel like I remember. Apparently I don't laugh like I used to. I'm sitting in my father's chair staring at the television, drowning the chatter with a wall of noise. They're sending me back next spring, but I'm not sure I'll last the winter.
Joseph Badham was writing a book until he realized no one was going to read it. Now he's paying the bills doing a job he doesn't like.