Last Thoughts

I wasn't aiming at you. You didn't care about that though, when you aimed at me. You saw my head pop up for a fraction of a second, then saw the tell-tale wobble that gave away the ruse. I thought it was safe, you see. I'm only eighteen, and the lesson didn't sink in as well as the lance corporal thought. They sat me in this foxhole for no reason I can make out, other than they needed to bury a few of us before it was time. Hole dug by yours truly means less work for the gravediggers, I suppose. So I climbed out of that hole, thinking of making a run for safer lines, or just making a run for it. Now I lay here in a winter field, spending a few moments daydreaming while my lips turn blue. Maybe flowers will bloom on me in the spring. You know, those red flowers they talk about in poems; push right up through my bones. The only flowers now are the ones I've just involuntarily painted on my coat. See?










For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Summer Page challenged me with "I wasn't aiming at you." and I challenged Amanda with "Tell me what you see when you look outside yourself."