Frequent Flyer Livery Service (Part 1)

He watched through the clear glass window of his private room in the center tower. It was the only room in his castle– a large, grey-brick structure with four turrets and the taller tower in the center–with such a large window. It was more than just a window, however. For Count Marcel, it was a two-way looking glass that allowed him to see any place, any time. Scientists later would call it a portal, though it really was not. This particular moment, he watched as a carriage moved swiftly down the dirt road in the woods beyond his home. His lofty position in the tower and the fact that the window ran around the entire room, gave him an eagle’s view of the surrounding territory. He usually knew a visitor was coming long before they arrived.

On this day, however, he was not expecting any guests, and the carriage on the road beyond was not heading his way. It was heading for his archenemy’s castle on the other side of the woods. The nostrils of his long beak-like nose curled as he whiffed the air.

Female, he thought.

His eyes stared into the scene in the window until it zoomed in on the carriage. The sunset struck so brilliantly into the traveling carriage when it gained the hilltop, that its occupant was steeped in crimson. The woman was quite lovely with her soft brunette hair pulled up into a large, sheer, pink hat. Her full bosom burst from her pale, pink frock. She held a small hand mirror in front of her face and smeared paint on her lips. Her beauty was lost on Count Marcel, however, as all he could see was the crimson flooding the carriage. He hurled himself through the window, his black cape winging out behind him as if he were flying. He swooped down into the carriage, scooped up the helpless female, and threw her in front of the carriage. The horses charged before the driver could stop them and trampled the woman to death, filling the path with a shade of crimson such as to rival the sunset.

He smiled from his perch in the tower, pleased with his work. He looked at the corkboard hanging on his wall, and flicked his index finger through the air. Ghostly fingers scratched a one on the white page tacked to the board, just above the number four. A noise from behind him caused him to turn and he observed yet another carriage worked its way slowly over the mountain behind him. He pulled a small vial filled with red liquid from his pants pocket and set it upright in a pan before redirecting his attention to the new carriage.

He tended to ignore the mountainside, mostly because those who traveled the mountain were too poor, their blood too tainted for his experiments. Something seemed odd about this particular passage though, and his hawk eyes trained to the carriage until it seemed to be in the room with him.

   Interesting place for a Prince! He thought as he recognized the carriage occupant. His eyes squinted slightly as the gears in his brain churned. Beyond the mountain was nothing but barren wasteland. Acting hastily before the carriage breached the bottom of the mountain, he jumped through the glass, his cape fanning out behind him, and free fell straight into the carriage.

“Wha…?” said the startled Prince as the Count landed smoothly in the seat across from him.

“Good morning, Sire,” Marcel said, making a slight bow from his waist. “I am amused that one such as you should be traveling this dark route. Have you no fear of the haunts that lurk these hills?”

The Prince trembled slightly in his seat. “None would dare face the King’s wrath,” he said unconvincingly. Marcel laughed, and laughed again as he watched the Prince shudder at its sound.

“Those who live in these hills fear nothing, least of all your King.” Marcel extended a hand out to the Prince. “I am Count Marcel. I own the Frequent Flyer Livery Service you should have engaged for your journey. I keep a vigilant eye from my castle there.” He pointed out the window as it came in view. “I am here solely to service good folks like you who have no business traveling alone through these parts. I have rerouted this drab excuse for wheels the city calls a carriage to my home where we will switch to one of my much finer ones for the duration of your journey. There is none in these hills who dare interfere with my riders. The risk is too great.”

As the last word rolled off Marcel’s tongue, the carriage approached the grey brick castle and a sharp whistle slipped from Marcel’s lips. The drawbridge came down. The carriage rolled over the drawbridge with enough speed to jostle the men inside.

“Whoa, that’s a rather rough ride,” the Prince said. The Count pointed out the window again at a group of wolves running behind the carriage. Only one of them was daring enough to try to jump the drawbridge and found itself sliced in half as the bridge closed on it.  A satisfied smile crept across the Count’s face as its blood splattered against the castle walls.

“There, see? Already I am protecting you.” He stepped out of the carriage and held the door open for the Prince, who stopped just outside the carriage.

“Where is your carriage?”

The Count whistled again and a horse came from around a corner. A man sat on a bench atop a carriage behind the horse. This carriage was indeed grander than the one the Prince had just emptied. The black paint was shiny and trimmed with gold. The black steed pulling it was young and frisky. Even the driver looked healthy and extravagant in a black suit.

“That will do quite nicely, actually, Count. What do you require in payment for your services?”

“Blood sacrifice,” the Count answered, a sick grin on his face. The Prince startled and cast a glance from the corner of his eye. The Count chuckled, a dry, sinister sound that did not relax the Prince even a little. The smile left Marcel’s face. “It is only a small vile. At least, you will live, unlike the others.”

The Prince’s head turned to take in his surroundings. For the first time he noticed where he was. It was a graveyard of sorts, though perhaps torture chamber described it better. The yard was full of black birds -vulture, crow, raven- all of which were feasting on decaying flesh hanging from gallows, dangling from stocks, and there was even one in an iron maiden. The stench hit him next and he gagged, bending over, which was all the Count needed to slit the Prince’s throat. He gathered a vial full and pushed the Prince out of the carriage before whistling the drawbridge down and letting the pack of wolves in.

They gathered around the Count like beloved pets, whining and scrambling over each other eagerly, hoping for a pat from the master’s hand.

“Well done, my puppies, well done.” He led them to the not-quite-dead Prince. They danced in anticipation, growls of delight leaving their throats. He eyed the Prince slowly, carefully. A full-mouthed grin crossed his face as terror froze on the Prince’s as the hungry wolves swarmed in.

Count Marcel watched from the tower as the wolves devoured their meal, a feeling of warm satisfaction filling his cold heart. Another ghostly finger left a scratch on the board as he set the vial in the box next to the first.

Two, he thought, and it is not even lunchtime!

The Count walked over to a corner of the room, the only part not encased in glass, and clapped. A panel in the wall slid open and he stepped into the darkness beyond. A light turned in the center of the room above a hospital bed. Shadows along the wall became clearer the closer he moved to the light. Medical equipment used to sustain life lurked there, the various wires running to and from the bed.

“Perhaps, my darling, I will finally have enough blood to give you a transfusion.” He stepped to the edge of the bed and pulled the sheet down. Fine white hair spilled across the pillow. Beneath the hair lay a shriveled face. Only its lips held youth. Marcel closed his eyes and kissed those lips as his hand reached up and stroked her hair.

He sighed deeply, the pain of his loss forcing it out. He did a quick check of her vitals. A frown creased his forehead. She was getting weaker. A volley of tears slid down his face. He could not stop crying and rage replaced his sadness. He threw the sheet over her face and stormed out of the room, the whisper of the wall panel filling the silence behind him.

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This story is inspired by many prompts. Frequent Flyer comes from Studio 30+ as one of the two writing prompts for last week. I used the 3 words from 3 Word Wednesday: helpless, trample, vigilant.

I also fit in the Master Class writing prompt as below:

And last but not least, and although its about a 1,000 words over the suggested word count, I finally managed to use a prompt from Inspiration Monday: Can’t Stop Crying.

I missed the deadline and a new photo prompt is up, but last week’s Picture It and Write (posted in the story above) planted the seed for the story so I wanted to give the creator of the meme due credit. A new photo prompt goes live every Saturday or Sunday. You should check them out!

The second part is being written now, and you can expect to read it tomorrow.

I welcome and appreciate all honest feedback on my writing. Please share your thoughts in a comment.

Thanks for stopping in!

Smile and Wave

“You better smile and wave.”

 

That was the command passed down from the highest officer in the United World Militia. It wasn’t a request. In fact, if you didn’t follow orders, it was grounds for immediate termination.

 

Your status on this planet didn’t matter. Your occupation didn’t matter. Your level of security didn’t matter.

 

“You better smile and wave.”

 

It applied to everyone, all across the globe, to those of us who survived the explosion and to those who created the explosion. All were equal when it came to this law. Not even the pope himself could get around it.

 

Speaking of the pope, they stripped the papal system. They condemned all priests and those who were unlucky enough to be caught died deaths equal to their lives. No sin left uncovered, their shame laid bare, most of them crucified on crosses made of crude wood. They hanged naked, castrated, and bleeding until their lives ceased. These priests of the highest order on the planet became examples, and it was not lost on the people.

 

The new World leader, once the President of the United States, made the decree.

 

“You better smile and wave.” His command, scribbled on a napkin in a small diner located in what was left of the District of Columbia, became law. Directed mainly to these priests who hanged on the crosses, it applied to all who faced termination. Ordered to stay until the last person drew his last breath, they required we smile and wave all the while.

 

Once the crucifixions ended, the militia herded us into the nearest temple, all of which were made of glass, where they stripped us and bathed us, all in the name of a new god fabricated from the President’s imagination. They rubbed our flesh raw until it bled, and then held our bodies over a large moat that ran around the temple, a conduit to capture the blood. This giving of blood was another law and to refuse was suicide. They always tore the flesh in visible places; the scars left behind became the necessary proof for the right to exist, the right to shop, the right to marry and have a family, the right to be with your family, and the right to be free, though the freedom offered was a sham.

 

Unless you lived in the hills.

 

Only the hill people were free. Only the hill people didn’t have to smile and wave. The hill people could hide in their cabins and turn a blind eye to what was going on in the world. One man led the hill people. They called him Ebby Shroud. There was nothing special about Ebby that set him apart from the rest. He was neither the youngest nor the oldest; his voice was neither the loudest nor the softest; he was neither the tallest nor the shortest. His appearance was no more attractive than the next man was. He was the only man willing to step up and take charge. “Desperation had given him authority.”

Desperation drove the hill people to keep to themselves and build a defense system that included ten foot walls and automatic weapons that fired with the first alarm. No one managed to penetrate it. They let no one in, and few out.

 

Your status on this planet didn’t matter. Your occupation didn’t matter. Your level of security didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, unless you had kin among the hill people. Your birthright was your only salvation from the chaos dwelling in the valley.

 

I was a lucky one. I could join the hill people, but I dared not leave the love of my life. It took me 35 years to find him and it would take more than a nuclear explosion set off by warring Presidents to separate me from him. I know that if I left, he wouldn’t follow. He hated the state of the world as much as I did, but running was never part of his vocabulary. They knew I wouldn’t leave him but still they invited me. I received letters regularly from my father begging me to join them. I wrote back requesting passage for David, my beloved, and the answer always came back no.

 

David was a leader in his own right, though the group he led was small. Some called it a militia, but it really wasn’t. We learned to carry any weapons we could find, because it meant a matter of our own survival if we didn’t. David and I were the only ones among our tribe that had actually killed someone. I wasn’t proud of it, but I’d done what needed doing, and I looked back with no regrets.

 

That’s the key to leadership my dad always said.

 

“No regrets” was his motto, and he did some horrific things while he served in the Army. Stuff so bad it woke him up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. One time he grabbed my mother by the throat and forced her up against the wall. She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t breathe. Who knows what else he would have done to her if I hadn’t approached when I did. Needless to say, he let her go but I’ll never forget the haunted look in his eyes when he realized what he’d done. He packed his bags the next day and we never heard from him again until recently. I suppose he finally had something to regret.

 

That’s neither here nor there to the current moment. I heard my beloved rustling around, stifling angry grunts and protests over shared food and sleeping space. More than one voice chimed in asking when we would go to war, and, as always, David’s soft tone soothed them that it would be soon. Soon was always the answer, and I knew the people grew restless. We were  tired  of the needless executions and crucifixions. We were tired of looking over our shoulders and the distrust that permeated everything, even between David and I, like a fog rolling in from the water. I knew an uprising was coming, even if David didn’t. Perhaps he did, he just preferred to live in denial. He’d always been a lover versus a fighter, but I was proud of how far he’d come. I wished my father could see us. They’d welcome us for sure if they could.

 

And maybe they could, if the last letter was any indication.

 

My father said he heard rumors of an uprising and begged me to come to the hills where it was safe. It was more than David that I would be leaving now, and I couldn’t do that to these people depending on me. They were all children, and I had somehow become their den mother. They lifted their frightened eyes to mine every morning and clustered around my waist every day they demanded us to “smile and wave.” No, I had a purpose here, now. The only way I would leave was if I were dead. That day may come sooner than I’d like. The people were more afraid of dying then of the President’s laws and so we waited.

Waited for the fear to subside. Waited for the courage to come. Waited as we smiled and waved at the new round of crucifixions, this time making martyrs of Christians. We waited so long Ebby started his own revolution and down from the hills they came, in small clusters like mini battalions.

 

At first, we thought they would help us, but they didn’t. Blood flowed like a busy stream on the streets, man, woman, and child alike. Shouts of “Coward” and “Scaredy cats” echoed in abandoned alleyways. This death was merciful in its quickness though and the people welcomed it. Few resisted. Few fought back. Our numbers dwindled until only a few brave souls remained. The powers that be watched from their thrones as we destroyed each other as if we were on a giant chessboard and they’d called the pieces.

 

Finally, I saw my father again. Ebby stood proud and tall before me, a dagger in his hand, the blood dripping from the blade that of my beloved. He smiled the award-winning smile I remembered from my childhood and I took a step towards him, tentatively. He spread his arms as if inviting me into his embrace, only once I got there, he squeezed me so hard I gasped.

 

“You should have come home when I asked you to. Now you are as poisoned as the rest of them and you cannot survive.” A sob escaped his throat even as he continued to squeeze me. “How I wish you would have listened instead of standing there smiling and waving.”

 

He looked me in the eyes once before slitting my throat and letting me drop. I felt warm liquid flow down over my bodice and my body weakened too quickly. I gasped one last time, my eyes searching for my father’s, but he’d turned his back on me. I closed my eyes and let the darkness take over, my soul finally at rest.

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For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week (which I totally blew the deadline for!) Christa gave me this prompt: You better smile and wave.

I gave Sam Edge this prompt: When in doubt, have a man come through the door with a gun in his hand. –Raymond Chandler

This also fits the Master Class assignment for this week. Renée gave us the second line of the last paragraph on page 152 of T.H. White’s Once and Future King which is “Desperation had given him authority.” The line is enclosed in quotes in the story above.

I welcome and appreciate honest feedback. Please share your thoughts in comment. I tried using a narrative POV with this piece. Should or could I have shown more and told less? Tell me what you think.

Thanks for stopping in!

Full Circle

Full Circle first appeared on My Write Side.

“Clever how the cosmos can, in a single portent, be ingratiating yet sadistic.” You stand in your own little universe, content and happy, not thinking about mortality when you discover one of your high school friends died. You are suddenly brought full circle, realizing how important it is to live every day and pack as much in that day as you can. You read the comments about this friend’s legacy and realize that in his 40 short years on this earth, he made each day count. His legacy of kindness and generous nature will live long beyond his memorial service. And it makes me wonder why I haven’t done more with my life.

What will people say about me when I’m gone? I can start building my legacy today. What about you?
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This week’s Master Class assignment was brought to us by Steph, who chose the first line from the fifth chapter of Three Junes by Julia Glass. That line was “Clever how the cosmos can, in a single portent, be ingratiating yet sadistic.”

Honest feedback is welcome and appreciated. Please share your thoughts in a comment.

Thanks for stopping in.

Hand in Hand

Elizabella looked at the portrait behind the bar with longing. The lone ballet slipper with the single lace elbow-length glove and the strand of pearls dangling from the shoe created a feeling of nostalgia she wanted to forget but did not dare to. So much had happened that day, and she still did not know what to do or, most importantly, the answer to the questions that surfaced to her mind. Her mind refused to understand why she had not been there. No peace came from knowing she should have moved to New York but let selfish desires rule her decision instead. She wanted answers but had no clue how to find them. All that had nothing to do with the picture itself, but because of what the picture contained, it kept the questions burning. It reminded her of Mirielle, and, truth be told, connected her to her sister.

Mirielle, her twin sister.

They had shared almost everything growing up but passions. Mirielle was a diva, a prima ballerina since the first time she pointed her toes at the tender age of two. Elizabella was a bit more boyish, preferring rough, rugged sports like baseball to prancing around on a stage. The difference worked well for them. At least they did, until two years ago when the twins split for the first time. Mirielle went to New York, hopeful to find her destiny on a stage. Elizabella stayed back in their hometown in the Midwest, took classes at the local community college, and worked part time as a bartender for a local pub. They existed together, yet apart, secure in the knowledge that the other was out there. They had also promised to call each other at a certain time every night.

Until the night when the phone did not ring. No one answered on the other end either.

A second night passed without talking to Mirielle.

By the third night, Elizabella began panicking. Even when Mirielle was at her busiest, she always made time for her. A knot formed in her stomach. Dread filled her soul. Something happened, and it was not good. After five days of missed phone calls, her phone rang and she knew.

“Hello?” She said quietly.

“Is this Elizabella Sempling?” A masculine voice asked.

Trepidation filled her senses. “Yes, this is she.” She squinched her eyes shut and held her breath.

“My name is Dan Jones. I’m a detective with the New York police department. I am investigating a crime. You’re listed as the next of kin for a Mirielle Sempling. Is this correct? Do you know Mirielle Sempling?”

His voice held authority and she exhaled. Tears rushed over her eyelids as her breath escaped. “She…she is….my twin…sister.” She asked no questions, only wished to delay whatever this man had to say. A soft sob flowed from her throat.

“I’m sorry. I need you to come to New York and identify her body. How soon can you get here?”

************

Grief stricken, Elizabella raced from the airport to the police station. Detective Jones met her at the reception desk and took her to the morgue. She said nothing along the way, still wishing to prolong the inevitable, and still holding out hope that the detective was wrong and it was not Mirielle lying on a cold slab in the morgue. She shivered thinking about it. The detective must have noticed it because he too remained quiet as they moved.

The elevator doors swished open with a creak as they landed on the basement level. The hallway beyond the elevator was not dark, but a few of the fluorescent lights overhead flickered as if they were about to lose power. This created an ominous atmosphere that left dark corners in every direction. Elizabella shivered again and pulled her wool coat closer, as if it was a suit of armor that could protect her. The detective placed his hand gently on her back between her shoulder blades protectively and she felt gratitude rush through her.

“I’m sorry. I know this is a bit…horror movie-ish, I suppose.” The detective chuckled softly and a slight smile found its way onto Elizabella’s face. There was no squelching the lump inside her bowels, however.

“It is a bit unsettling. This whole having to identify a body combined with this atmosphere…if someone were giving out trophies for the creepiest real life situations, I think this would win hands-down,” Elizabella said.

“I agree with you. It is very unsettling, even for me, and until the moment they are found, most of them are strangers to me. I’ve met some fascinating people along the way, but I’m always sorry for the circumstances we meet under.” The detective paused long enough to push open a set of double metal doors lined with black rubber strips. He held one of the doors open. “This way, please.”

Elizabella stepped through the doors and found herself surprised. The morgue did not look the way television had trained her to think it did. A woman in a white jacket sat behind a desk, a pair of eyeglasses holding back her golden brown hair like a headband and an out-of-place smile attached to her face.

“Hi, Dan.” She said, rising from her seat. Fondness dripped from her words. “What can I do for you today?”

The detective turned to Elizabella and said, “This is Dr. Johnson, our resident ME.”

He turned to Dr. Johnson in the same manner and said, “Susan, this is Elizabella Sempling. She is here to identify that body we brought in from the park yesterday.”

“Ah, yes. Such a pity, that one,” Dr. Johnson said as she turned her back to them.

She walked forward, her heels click clacking on the hard linoleum floor as she went. She crossed the room and stopped in front of a silver cabinet with a single row of three drawers. She opened the centermost drawer and slid out the tray. A body covered with a sheet laid on it. The doctor waited patiently for the detective and his guest to be ready. Elizabella sniffled and despair etched its signature in the lines of her green eyes and full mouth.

Dan turned to Elizabella expectantly. “Ready?” He asked.

Her eyes closed and she nodded. The sheet removal cast a soft breeze against her skin. She inhaled slowly and exhaled quickly, audibly. Her eyes opened slowly as she breathed. The tears she had been holding back spilled down her cheeks as she saw the familiar jawline, recognized the slightly crooked nose–the one she accidentally broke when they were five. Her face crumbled as she took in the various shades of purple that colored Mirielle’s skin, yet she held her poise. She closed her eyes again, willing the vision to go away, wishing that all this were nothing more than a dream. A wail filled the silence and she realized it came from her. She watched the doctor quickly cover Mirielle back up and slide her back into the black hole beyond her feet. Pressure on her arm made her feet move, but she was no longer aware. A fog settled over the edges of everything within view, and she allowed the detective to lead her away.

When the fog cleared, she found herself sitting in a chair next to a desk. A man she did not recognize sat behind the desk. She felt her body ripple and his head turned her way.

“Are you okay, Miss Sempling?” He said. His voice was as kind as his eyes.

Elizabella looked around her before answering. “Where is Detective Jones?”

“He got a call and had to step out. My name is Detective O’Hara. Can I get you anything?”

She looked at him blankly, soaking in his appearance. His black hair was peppered with silver streaks. Crow’s feet marred the corner of his soft brown eyes, chasing away the illusion of youth he had otherwise. Realizing her throat felt dry and raw, she asked for a drink. He came back with a bottle of water and set it down in front of her. Tears traced new paths down her face as she remembered why she was there in the first place.

“What happened to my sister?” She asked in a subdued voice.

Detective O’Hara paused for a moment. She could tell he was considering his words carefully. “Did Detective Jones tell you nothing?”

She let her eyes fall to the floor. “I…I don’t remember. I don’t even know how I got from the morgue to this desk.”

“I see. You must understand that I am not handling your sister’s case. I have limited information. All I can accurately tell you is that she died of an overdose.”

Elizabella frowned in confusion. “An overdose? That’s not possible. My sister was a dancer, preparing for her second show on Broadway. She would never use drugs.” Her fingers twisted around the bottle of water until it crackled. “She’s always been anti-stimulant. Pain was her friend, she said. It was the only way she knew she was doing it right. She would never, ever do drugs. Not even for recreation.”

“I’m sorry; I don’t have any more information. Since it is an active investigation, they must believe there was some foul play involved. I can assure you that all the detectives working on the case are doing everything they can to solve it.”

Detective Jones spoke from behind her. “We are absolutely doing everything we can. There is no evidence that she was doing drugs at all. All the marks and bruises on her skin tell a story. We need to figure out what that story is.” Sorrow framed his eyes. “I’m sorry again, Miss Sempling. Thank you for coming. I will call you when your sister’s body is released.”

*********

Elizabella looked at the picture behind the bar. The lone ballet slipper, the single lace glove, and the strand of pearls reminded her of her sister. Fresh tears slipped out, and her heart began aching anew. She looked at the glass in her hand. The bokah lights faded in the background as she raised it for a refill. The fingers of her other hand toyed with two small red capsules resting within her palm. It had taken her a couple of days to secure them. “Pain Killers” was the street name for them, and promises of numbness flowed behind every sale. She had wanted more, but they refused to sell more than two at a time. The rules were explained during purchase– do not mix with alcohol; do not take the open the capsules; do not take more than one at a time. The penalty for rule breaking could result in death. She understood.

She stopped toying with them and placed them on the white cocktail napkin beside her refilled glass of wine. She swatted at the tears wetting her face and looked at the picture once more before closing her eyes. Mirielle danced behind her closed eyelids, a smile on her unmarked face, and laughter spilled from her lips. They spun together in a circle, faster and faster until their hands slipped from each other’s grip and they fell, laughing, to the green carpet of grass beneath their feet.

“What are you waiting for?” Mirielle said, her face once again twelve, the best year of their lives. Childish laughter echoed between the trees that surrounded them.

Elizabella smiled. She opened one capsule and poured the contents into her glass. She could feel a lightness taking over her body, filling her soul with peace. She split the second capsule open and dumped its contents into the glass. She refused to let her thoughts wander, choosing, instead, to let Mirielle fill them. She sighed then drank from the glass, emptying it in four gulps.

As her eyes closed, Mirielle reached out to her. Hand-in-hand they started walking toward the edge of the tree line.

“Born hand in hand, died hand in hand.” She said with her last breath. “Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

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I’m triple dipping this week, but only for two writing memes. I started this story last week when the first Picture It and Write was still up (the ballet slipper picture at the beginning of the story) and the new picture (the one at the bottom) given out yesterday gave me the story’s direction.

This is also a Master Class production, with the ending line being our prompt from Tiger Eyes by Judy Blume this week. You have until 6 pm EST tonight to get your story in. What are you waiting for?

I am always looking for honest feedback. Please share your thoughts on this, and any story, in the comments section.

Thanks for stopping in.

The Good Son

Her tears fell, single, soundless, on the stone beneath her knees, weeping for her son. “A few good men” flickered in her mind. He was good, one of the few. He enlisted early, at seventeen. “The proud, the few, the Marines.” He was all of that and more. He didn’t even graduate before they called his number. He stood astute, his arm raised, his hand positioned in perfect salute, dressed in his blues. A visit home before deployment and a return in a simple pine box, days before his eighteenth birthday. Her tears fell for a life snuffed too soon.

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Today’s flash fiction is brought to you by Lance/Leeroy’s 100 Word Song (David Bowie’s Soul Love) and Velvet Verbosity’s 100 Word Challenge (Soundless).

I welcome and appreciate all honest feedback. Please share your thoughts in a comment.

Thanks for stopping in!