Layers of Blood

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
The lands have fallen. The people slain. Streets and fields flooded by blood. The screams still echo of the slain, of the ones who survived and recounted the tales.

Submitted: July 27, 2012

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Submitted: July 27, 2012

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The lands have fallen. The people slain. Streets and fields flooded by blood. The screams still echo of the slain, of the ones who survived and recounted the tales. The eyes blinded. The ears unable to hear. The body compromised. Yeah, all in a days function. Made and grown in this land. It's hard to believe it was once lively and peaceful. Such a quaint little town. Today is the anniversary to those slain and wounded. Those minds warped by the sight of a scream and an echo of the bodies strewn upon the ground. We gathered in strength to fight off the horrors of the enemy. Little boys passed off as drummer boys. At the age of 17, you just said when asked that you stand on 18. 17 at the beginning of being what society called adult...now living as one who's considered mature at the (your) prime of 18. Women and girls wanted in on the action. Signed up to be nurses, some became spies. Others became soldiers; against the norm back then. Ready for some excitement, ready to help a cause they believe in. Yeah...all in a days function. The sound of cannon fire still echoes in my ears. I still here the sound of the screams full of shock, hurt, pain, and surprise. The sounds of sheer agony as they took enemy artillery on. Fighting against family...against your own people. This story is always heard, always forgotten. I saw it all; as the bodies laid there still warm even though there'd be mo pulse. Maybe a letter or two, a picture of a loved one. I saw it all so my eyes are scared. My ears are deaf to an extent as I still hear the ricochets of agonizing screams, the pounds of cannons, the whizzing of bullets and blades as they fly past your head. I still hear the voices of the long past dead. I write thus now from the thoughts of them and in their memory. I'd want to give pity, but then I realize it's hardly ever their choice to begin the fight. The streets and fields though many a storm, harvesting, and reroading have taken place they still have layers of blood to uncover up. I can write and write though it'd be hard rather than easy to write what happened as I never was there...never was in each mind as they took up arms...


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