To My Willow blossom of love,

It has been some time since my last letter, and there is much to tell, but know that I am well. I did receive your care package, and it brought such joy, especially the photograph you sent me. You are as lovely as I remember, and I hope to see more of your neck in person someday. Until then, I shall release Satan’s swimmers without shame. Thank you.

I must regretfully tell you that it looks like my time here will be longer. Since my last letter, it seemed as if the world was trying to go back to normal, but I could still hear a bugle sounding in the background. Many people said the war was over, even some of our generals, but there has been no official treaty signing. We finally started receiving telegraphs from the other southern states, and the news was concerning. Their superiors were caught off guard, and now it appears that they are overrun with the enemy. Most of the biggest hit areas are Douchebag isle, Sirloin Clayhat, Mississississyou mudpile, Crimson Redfire, Golden King’s bridge and Peachtree parking lot. What seemed to be ‘winding’ down, has become more ablazed than Cousin John, that one time when he fell into the hearth. Our local regiments have already been stretched for the last month, and now it appears that the enemy is no longer at the gate, but within. More and more, I consider ways to re-enforce our forts, but I cannot think of a way to close our state borders. The Governor Sergent has made all mask mandatory and shut down the taverns.

However, it may be in vain, now that townsfolk do not support our cause. I’ve heard stories of townsfolk shouting like crazy banshees around Trader Joe’s farmer market. They have formed an militia to work against our efforts to end the conflict. They shout about their rights to go without long-johns and the greatness of their lung capacity, however, I tell you this is must be the work of Yellow fever. Or Witches.

Our hospitals are filling up, with the usual infirmities, but also with a good number of the afflicted. I am seeing more afflicted than when the war began. It has been so crowded, that I sometimes see patients outside the tents, as we have no room within. I fear that in a few weeks, our town may return back to a ghost town. I must stock up on Gin and Orange puff balls, and I suppose white gold. There is no end in sight, however, it does seem that we have developed better weapons, so our causalities are decreasing. Some people are saying we must draft our grandparents to fight, but if anyone comes for grandma Bessie, I will flog them like a 3-legged mule.

No matter, I did not write to alarm you. I hope you are well and enjoying the summer. As Uncle Benny used to say, ‘Winter thus come’.