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Entry tags:
Moving forward
I decided to start writing again.
The circumstances under which I had stopped writing here are now at an end. So I sit here at my new desk in the confines of my office, and start a new page. Three months ago, the journal was placed in an envelope, along with a few other items so that in the case of my death someone would know what had happened and would have some insight into my past. I had mailed three identical letters containing a sealed note to three of my closest acquaintances here in New Babbage, with a simple set of instructions...if I should be found dead or found to be missing for over a week, open the note. The note simply said “roll top desk, top drawer”.
The file jacket contained my past.
The folder sits in front of me, still rimmed in red trim, with the bold words on the cover...Verschlusssache. The dossier was complete, yet still not descriptive enough to merit capture.
The first picture is of a family on a veranda, the father in his dress uniform, seated, an Indian woman in a proper European dress standing at his side. The children stand to the man's right, two girls, one boy. The boy wears a suit, and looks decidedly uncomfortable in his dress clothes. The girls wear saris, one with her dark hair pulled to one shoulder, the other with a slight smile.
The second, a young couple posing for their engagement. The young officer looks serious, but his eyes give his feelings away. The young lady holds his arm, beaming.
A newspaper clipping from the military news, telling of the casualties from another skirmish with colonial forces.
Another picture of the young lady, dressed in black with a veil hiding the tear-puffed eyes that stare hollowly into the camera.
A letter from the Foreign Ministry announcing a posting to the Office of Colonial Affairs.
A group of officers on campaign, sitting under their command tent in the field. The figure in the back, nearly obscured, a woman in a shell jacket holding a rifle.
Aftermath of a skirmish, somewhere in Africa. The officer has their back to the photographer, but the plait of hair that hangs from under the pith helmet and the curve of the hips that peek from underneath the bush jacket are not male.
A page from the Hamburg Chronicle, with the headline “Der Teufelfrau terrorisiert Kolonien!”
Another group of officers, standing in front of a ruined pagoda. The woman bears the marks of a long field campaign on her uniform. Her eyes are hard and cold.
A woman in a formal naval officer's uniform, standing on the fantail of an ironclad.
Records of treatment from several hospitals for various decidedly unladylike injuries.
A letter from the Chief Constable of New Orleans to the British Consulate, concerning the actions of certain individuals against residents of the city who were found to be missing.
The light is falling, the darkness begins to peek through the skylights of the office. I put the various parts of my past back into the folder, and return it to the desk drawer.
I left my journal out of the folder this time, as I must transcribe the details of what happened that led me here before they fade completely, as someone must tell the tale.
The circumstances under which I had stopped writing here are now at an end. So I sit here at my new desk in the confines of my office, and start a new page. Three months ago, the journal was placed in an envelope, along with a few other items so that in the case of my death someone would know what had happened and would have some insight into my past. I had mailed three identical letters containing a sealed note to three of my closest acquaintances here in New Babbage, with a simple set of instructions...if I should be found dead or found to be missing for over a week, open the note. The note simply said “roll top desk, top drawer”.
The file jacket contained my past.
The folder sits in front of me, still rimmed in red trim, with the bold words on the cover...Verschlusssache. The dossier was complete, yet still not descriptive enough to merit capture.
The first picture is of a family on a veranda, the father in his dress uniform, seated, an Indian woman in a proper European dress standing at his side. The children stand to the man's right, two girls, one boy. The boy wears a suit, and looks decidedly uncomfortable in his dress clothes. The girls wear saris, one with her dark hair pulled to one shoulder, the other with a slight smile.
The second, a young couple posing for their engagement. The young officer looks serious, but his eyes give his feelings away. The young lady holds his arm, beaming.
A newspaper clipping from the military news, telling of the casualties from another skirmish with colonial forces.
Another picture of the young lady, dressed in black with a veil hiding the tear-puffed eyes that stare hollowly into the camera.
A letter from the Foreign Ministry announcing a posting to the Office of Colonial Affairs.
A group of officers on campaign, sitting under their command tent in the field. The figure in the back, nearly obscured, a woman in a shell jacket holding a rifle.
Aftermath of a skirmish, somewhere in Africa. The officer has their back to the photographer, but the plait of hair that hangs from under the pith helmet and the curve of the hips that peek from underneath the bush jacket are not male.
A page from the Hamburg Chronicle, with the headline “Der Teufelfrau terrorisiert Kolonien!”
Another group of officers, standing in front of a ruined pagoda. The woman bears the marks of a long field campaign on her uniform. Her eyes are hard and cold.
A woman in a formal naval officer's uniform, standing on the fantail of an ironclad.
Records of treatment from several hospitals for various decidedly unladylike injuries.
A letter from the Chief Constable of New Orleans to the British Consulate, concerning the actions of certain individuals against residents of the city who were found to be missing.
The light is falling, the darkness begins to peek through the skylights of the office. I put the various parts of my past back into the folder, and return it to the desk drawer.
I left my journal out of the folder this time, as I must transcribe the details of what happened that led me here before they fade completely, as someone must tell the tale.