They say your whole life flashes before you at the end, but Jimmy recalled only boots pounding on bitumen, endless lines of marching men, and flag-waving crowds cheering them on to the great adventure. They’d be home by Christmas.
He lay dying in reeking mud, numb from cold, amid shell-bursts and machine-gun stutter. Around him, other men fought on.
Then in the gloom he saw a distant blur – pale, swirling, drifting closer, taking shape: his sisters in light summer dresses, laughing, twirling in play. He smiled.
He never heard the screams as the gas cloud rolled in.
It’s a sombre one this week for Friday Fictioneers, but the prompt provided by Rochelle, fitting for Remembrance Day, leads to sombre thoughts. Thanks to Rochelle for hosting the weekly event where writers contribute 100 word stories in response to a photo.