October 11th, 2021

Dear Mother,

The war on the northern front has been unbelievably brutal. Not only are we threatened by the rebellion, but the weather is also getting harsher by the day. Our morale has been unprecedentedly low; we are not prepared for the war to continue into winter, and many of our soldiers are starting to show symptoms of malnutrition.

Remember how I eagerly signed up for morning patrol? I first signed up solely because I thought it would look good on my college resume… but now I’m starting to regret it. Not only am I assaulted by the cold air every day at 7 in the morning, I also have to constantly endure my teammates Bob and Jerry objectifying women.

Surprisingly, none of us have been killed by the students… yet. In the mornings, they’re always too sleep-deprived to bother with us. Sometimes I even catch myself feeling bad for them. Our patrols would usually take about half an hour or so, afterwards, we would move south to have a humble 6-hour lunch break near the track.

The rations here are the worst thing in the world. Seriously, I sometimes wonder how the higher-ups approved our diet of diarrhea and unwatered Californian grass. It never rains in this hellhole—I’m starting to think maybe even God hates Californians. The higher-ups wrote to Congress about this problem, but those goddamn moderate “Democrats” in Congress keep denying our requests. I think they really ought to fund the military more, we’re spending way too much on healthcare and infrastructure.

I’ve never really understood why the humans would disappear only to reappear wearing matching uniforms. Mother, you’ve gotta believe me when I say their uniforms are the ugliest abominations I’ve ever laid my eyes upon. The grey and blue really hinder the nonexistent beauty of high schoolers.

I’ve also never understood why human pop culture seems to glorify these high schoolers; we geese are way better than them, we’re more beautiful, energetic, and smart enough to not set off the fire alarm.

My friends and I usually have a small race on the track. It’s quite fun if you overlook the fact that we nearly get trampled by humans. They always walk around the track and fields every Tuesday and Wednesday. On some days, a stray human will come towards my friends and I. But no need to worry, we always follow the standard safety protocols of flying away.

After the race, my friends and I met up with our militia halfway, at the border between humanity’s concrete blacktops and our…not so green fields. It’s often at this time where any last-minute prayers or ineffective attempts to raise morale would be spoken. But today was an exception. None of the generals even uttered a word during the march; I suspect this is probably because of their fall allergies.

We would finally make it to the battlefield—the place where the bloodiest battles of the revolution take place. Our generals are willing to sacrifice so many young geese for only a few stretches of territory gained. The rebellion first started as a peaceful protest of soldiers on wartime sanitary regulations—I wouldn’t blame them, even on the battlefield we can still smell the stench of geese excrement. 

But, mother, if you’ve been following the news lately, you would know that if there’s ever a peaceful protest, we government peeps somehow have to make it violent.

Life in the trenches is dull; it’s times like this where I remember you, dad, and my fifty-three brothers and sisters at home. If you don’t hear from me for a while, please remember that I love you mom and that nothing matters in the end because we’re all going to die anyway.

Much love,

Gideon