Daniel Xonedu. 71.206.373.672.
The Global Record. Friday, September 25, 2128
Summer has skipped town like a fickle debutante grown weary of her beau, and the Fall has blown into my farm on the cool easterly winds. The leaves on the maples burn scarlet in the woods my father planted behind the barns before I was born, and the leather-skinned pumpkins my wife tends so carefully have begun to swell on the vines. My neighbour, Giles, a wiry soul, who once coached our state baseball team, is busy harvesting the crop of apples that he will brew with the devotion of the alchemist into the cider that the two of us will share, as we have done for these great many years, on one of our south-facing porches.
We will chew the fat over the short wintry afternoons to come, before the first of the heavy snows drive us into our caves.
On fine, God-sent mornings such as this one, with the suns rays slanting benignly through my window, I find it difficult to believe that such turmoil brews in the torrid Sahara.
When one cannot possibly hear the high buzz of the fighter jets as they duck and dive, maintaining the perimeters; when one can only imagine the rivers of sweat trickling down limber bodies that are loaded with ordinance; when one cannot hope to see the dust devils being whipped up on the far shimmer of the horizon; it is very easy to dismiss entirely that such turmoil exists.
It is far more comforting to believe that stacking high the walls of the wood shed, and oiling the tools for storage are the most pressing needs of the day.
But, then again, I am an old man. That is my excuse.
Were I younger I would undoubtedly be called upon again to serve my time as necessary in the trenches, to protect those installations that benefit each and every part of our lives.
It is a sorrow to my heart, this latest scuffle. Surely we must not engage once more in the near perpetual state of warfare that so blighted the last hundred years of our world. Short sighted acts of attrition will leave all of us blind.
It is blatantly clear, at least to this withered man, that The Guardians of The Committee must seize upon the means to enter into material negotiations with The Masters Of The Jihad. A solution has to be found, so that the resources of the Fission Facilities can be harnessed for the benefit of all citizens on the planet.
Surely the old men of the East wish for the comfort and peace that would enable them to sit undisturbed among their families and brethren?
Surely they too wish to pursue their studies of their Holy books and practise their contemplations? Just as this creaking old-timer covets the cool afternoons of as many more winters as he can decently lay claim to.
I wish only to idle in the shade on my porch. As I am certain do they.
Daniel Xonedu. 71.206.373.672
Retired Colonel of the Northern Armies
Retired Professor of Divinities, Princeton University