I thought I would share with you a short story today, written by my lovely friend Kathryn Trattner. This is a short piece, but it's haunting and poetic, and I'm sure my older readers will enjoy it. This is only the first portion of the story. A link near the bottom of the excerpt will take you to the remainder of the story, originally published on Wyvern Lit's website. Thanks!
Each blast separate, unique, the bombs falling from the sky and getting nearer. After months at the front Sam could tell roughly where they’d land, how far from him they’d be. He ducked, dirt pattering down, plunking on his helmet, dusting his shoulders. He didn’t bother brushing it away.
At first he’d covered his ears, hunched his shoulders, pulled his head in like a turtle. Not now. The man beside him coughed, hacking blood. He’d been too slow with his mask the last time they’d been gassed. But he hadn’t told the commanding officer. The man wanted to stay, half buried in the earth, sweating and bleeding and dying by inches in the trenches.
Sam touched his pocket, felt the wad of paper there, the comfort of civilization when nothing else appeared sane. The words were a lifeline, a rope, to a world that he’d forgotten. He knew, he had to believe, that it remained, past the machine gun nests and the field hospital, away on the hazed horizon.
His belief alone would make it real.
He fumbled the packet free, digging out the stub of a pencil he’d kept, whittled, and preserved.
He began to write.
To read the remainder of "Battlefield Muse", please click here. (Link will take you to the original article on Wyvern Lit's website).
At first he’d covered his ears, hunched his shoulders, pulled his head in like a turtle. Not now. The man beside him coughed, hacking blood. He’d been too slow with his mask the last time they’d been gassed. But he hadn’t told the commanding officer. The man wanted to stay, half buried in the earth, sweating and bleeding and dying by inches in the trenches.
Sam touched his pocket, felt the wad of paper there, the comfort of civilization when nothing else appeared sane. The words were a lifeline, a rope, to a world that he’d forgotten. He knew, he had to believe, that it remained, past the machine gun nests and the field hospital, away on the hazed horizon.
His belief alone would make it real.
He fumbled the packet free, digging out the stub of a pencil he’d kept, whittled, and preserved.
He began to write.
To read the remainder of "Battlefield Muse", please click here. (Link will take you to the original article on Wyvern Lit's website).
Connect With Kathryn
Visit Kathryn's website to see what she's working on now.
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