They walk among us still — the souls of proxy-fighters we betrayed.
Most of us still stagger streets with down-cast eyes; air-pods filling our heads with blazing hymns.
It’s painful to remember how we waited for the bombs to fall; together, telling stupid jokes in broken English.
Now only silent darkness soothes our pain.
Together we believed the world would be a safer place to live, but as we are safely home while they — our comrades — are being battered into pulp.
We’ve been commanded into cowardice, and bear the burden of our guilt that never can be shared.
Friday Fictioneers is a led by El Commodore Rochelle, and we the faithful peons of fiction try our best to follow her guiding star in creating stories in 100 words.
Click the frog for more stories.
October 16, 2019