13 January 2026, @mariannewest's Freewrite Writing Prompt Day 2981: stress

“So, Captain, uh … how do you even manage the stress of having seven grandchildren in your custody?”

“Eight, actually – I just adopted my baby cousin Glendella.”

“Sir, are you mad?”

Lieutenant Fred Wright was on leave, about to get married, and trying to get over his cold feet about marriage and children – but it was always hard to stay afraid while Capt. R.E. Ludlow was joyfully laughing in that beautiful earthquake bass voice he had.

“Lieutenant, perspective is everything. Remember the situations we faced in Afghanistan?”

“And how!” Lt. Wright said.

“The worst thing I deal with are the assaults my little ones are constantly making on the common sense they don't have yet, but are trying to get.”

“You know, when you put it that way … kinda like having a little toy army again … but the cost alone of having one is stressing me out.”

“What you need to do your duty will be provided to you. The Army does pretty well at that, but the Captain of the Hosts of the Lord is absolutely fantastic at it.”

“I want to believe … I really do … I'm trying to get there, Captain … I just want to do everything right, so bad … I love Gayle and I know I'm going to love our kids but it's so rough out here right now.”

“One day at a time, soldier. Nobody is asking you to work out next week's orders this week – just deal with what you have today. Remember: you keep up your great service and you'll be a captain soon enough, and if you don't tick off a general here and there you'll be a major before you know it.”

“You saved all our lives, staying a captain,” Lt. Wright said. “Thank you, sir – we have a life to be scared about because of you caring more about us than any more promotions.”

“My duty, my honor, my pleasure,” Capt. Ludlow said. “I wasn't looking forward to being a major or a colonel anyway – I did miss those pension updates, but, oh well!”

“You know Col. H.F. Lee has gone to town about all that, right?” Lt. Wright said. “I don't know how he heard about what happened to you, but the Angel of Death is kicking tails and taking names, and telling folks they had better right this wrong done to you, complete with back pay.”

“Oh, well, then, they better do it because nobody needs to get him riled up,” Capt. Ludlow said. “Forget me – they should save themselves!”

“I hope they work it out for you so you can take care of those eight little Ludlows you have!”

“Hey, Papa,” nine-year-old George Ludlow said as he came into the room, “if the moon is made of cheese, can we take some nachos up there and have a party?”

“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” the captain said. “Common sense is going through it again – no, George, we cannot have nachos on the moon!”

“Oh, right – we need to take salsa and guacamole, too, and also -- hey Grandma, I know beans are gassy, so can we use that to power the rockets?”