SCOTT SEIBEL

Scott Seibel is a writing teacher in the dusty Oklahoma plains where he lives with his wife, Elizabeth, and their two kids, Isabelle and Jeremiah. His published work includes poetry as well as short fiction. If he didn't write, he wouldn't be.

AN EXCERPT FROM “A LETTER WRITTEN BUT NOT SENT FROM A SOLDIER”

You know how I used to say that I haven’t remembered a dream since I was thirteen? Well, I can’t say that anymore. Lately, the dreams I remember always combine my life at home with whatever is going on here. Like, last night I dreamed we were having Thanksgiving dinner in one of the Jihad’s caves. A lantern hung from the rock and dirt ceiling, and it swung every time an explosive went off. But nobody noticed. The ground shook; the light swayed making the cave go from shadow to light and back to shadow again. Bits of dirt fell into the food on the table; the first few times an explosion went off, I dropped from my chair and hid under the table. The whole family was there sitting around the food. The dirt fell around you, but not a spec fouled your dress.

That’s not what made it odd. Dad’s right eye wasn’t his own, but a jihad’s. He kept it covered under a patch. Every once in a while, when nobody else was looking, he’d flip that patch up and give me a wink with it—that winking Jihad eye. I knew it wasn’t his, but I don’t know how I knew it was a Jihad’s. After each wink he’d say something about how everything smells good, real good. I couldn’t smell anything but the usual stink, so I just stayed silent. He said something that sounded like the word, grenade, and startled me so.

I jumped up, saying, “What?” He looked at me oddly. 

“I said grace. Doesn’t it just smell divine?” Wink. 

Read more of “A Letter Written But Not Sent from a Soldier” in Solum Journal Volume I.