Letters from home

A homesick soldier on Z7 clings to his sister’s letter amid alien deceptions.

Dean Sycamore lay on his back staring at the steel ceiling of the barracks, the recycled air humming faintly through vents overhead. The smell was always the same: machine oil, gunpowder, and damp fabric that never fully dried. Z7 was a cold world, not cold like December in Minnesota, but a wet kind of cold that seeped through the armor joints and made your bones ache. He rolled his shoulders, listening to the muted sound of artillery in the distance. The bugs were out there, always out there.

He’d been here for nine months. Nine months since he’d seen a sunrise without the sickly green tint of Z7’s atmosphere. Nine months since he’d tasted fresh bread. Nine months since he’d hugged his little sister, Rosie. It had been a couple of years since the earth was attacked. So, home was a dream now, and dreams weren’t good currency in a place like this.

“Mail call!” Sergeant Harlow’s voice boomed through the mess hall. Conversation stopped, metal spoons clinked down, and chairs scraped. Soldiers leaned forward, restless as starving wolves. Mail was rare here, dependent on fragile supply lines threading between Earth and the front. It didn’t come often. And when it did, it mattered more than rations, more than ammo. It was a tether to something human.

Dean sat up, heart already pounding. He hadn’t heard from home since his deployment began. His parents weren’t much for writing, and Rosie was only ten. He figured she probably didn’t even know how to send a letter to Z7. But hope had a way of making your chest ache.

The sergeant began reading names. Each soldier snatched their letter like it was oxygen. Dean held his breath until...

“Sycamore, Dean.”

His chest nearly burst. He stumbled to the front and took the thin white envelope like it was glass. His name was written in pencil, the letters round and uneven. He didn’t need to read the return address to know: Rosie.

Dean retreated to his bunk, ignoring the chatter of the others tearing into their mail. He slid a finger carefully beneath the flap and unfolded the letter. The paper was lined, probably from a school notebook.

Dear Dean,

I hope you are okay. Mom says you are very far away, fighting to keep us safe. I miss you a lot. I drew a picture of us playing tag in the yard. Do you remember how you always let me win? You better come home soon so I can prove I’m faster now.

Love, Rosie.

He pressed the paper to his chest, closing his eyes. For a moment, he was home again, running through the yard with Rosie’s giggles echoing like bells.

That night, Dean couldn’t sleep. The letter burned in his pocket, a fragile piece of home against the cold alien dark. Outside the barracks, the bugs clicked and hissed. He pictured Rosie’s handwriting, every clumsy loop of her pencil. T

He whispered into the darkness, almost a prayer: “I’ll come home, Rosie. I promise.”

The next morning, the squad moved out for patrol across the jagged plains of Z7. The ground was black rock streaked with glowing veins of green fungus. Spires rose like broken teeth, and the air hummed with unseen wings. Every soldier’s helmet visor glowed faintly, feeding them radar and thermal scans, but it never felt like enough. The bugs knew this land. They breathed it.

Dean kept one hand over his chest pocket, as though Rosie’s letter could shield him.

A skittering sound snapped his attention. To the left, in a crevice between rocks, movement flickered. Dean raised his rifle. Out crawled something half-human, half-wrong. A woman’s face stretched over a bulbous skull, eyes too wide, too glossy. The lips moved, and a voice, achingly familiar, whispered:

“Dean...it’s Mom. Come closer. You’ve been so brave.”

Dean’s blood froze. He’d heard stories of this; the bugs that could mimic speech, twisting their mandibles until they croaked out words in human tones. They lured soldiers into the dark, whispering with voices of mothers, brothers, lovers.

“Nice try,” Dean muttered. For half a second, he wanted to believe. He wanted to drop the gun and let himself hear her voice again. But then his chest pocket crinkled. Rosie’s letter. His real tether. He squeezed the trigger.

The creature shrieked, splitting open down the middle as ichor sprayed across the rocks. Its disguise peeled away, revealing twitching mandibles slick with saliva. It collapsed, convulsed, then went still.

Torres clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Good call. Don’t ever forget what’s real.”

Dean nodded. He wouldn’t. Not while Rosie’s words were pressed against his heart.

That night, Dean wrote back. Supplies were thin, but he managed to scrounge a scrap of paper and a dull pencil.

Dear Rosie,

I got your letter today. It was the best thing I’ve held in nine months. I remember playing tag, and yes, you were fast, but I let you win most of the time. Next time, though, we’ll race for real.

Take care of Mom and Dad.

I’ll come home. I promise.

Love, Dean.

When he folded the letter, he tucked it beside hers, two fragile lifelines against the dark. Outside, the bugs whispered and clawed at the walls, their voices weaving lies. But Dean knew the truth. Home was waiting, written in pencil by a little girl who believed he’d run across the yard with her again. And that was enough to keep him fighting on the cold world of Z7.

Written for:"The Writer's Cramp" 
Prompt: Write a story or poem that has the title:
"Letters From Home"
Also, please select "Military" as one of your genres.
Word count: 917