The Parcel

“It’s a parcel for you, Sarge!” the words hung visibly; condensed in the bitter air. Ice underfoot cracked beneath the sodden boots approaching; each step releasing fetid odours of rotting corpses, faeces, death, that it was hitherto holding at bay. A dozen pairs of eyes stared, greedily as the package exchanged hands. Shaking, the sergeant held the box in its crude wrapping of brown paper and string. Eventually he pulled off his stiff mittens with teeth which shifted painfully in complaint at the effort. He glanced impassionately; three fingers of one hand four, on the other useless black stumps, rotted, from frostbite, neglect, and gangrene. His index still there as was himself; he could still pull a trigger. ‘Friends’ eagerly helped the unwrapping; a taste of candy a drag on a ciggy their anticipated reward. He stared at the contents. A pair of red gloves; each finger lay there as fresh, as red, as a poppy; with a note from a child: “Dear Tommy I knitted these for you in class to keep you warm while you keep us safe, I hope you like them, Lillian.” Of What Use Are Gloves To Fingers That Only Understand Mittens Poetry Contest: Placed 2nd Sponsored by: John lawless Date written 21st December 2022