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One Afternoon

In by Wyatt on August 15, 2010 at 9:53 am

Strawberry red petals floated to the ground like drops of blood.

They were drops of blood.

His right arm was a bombsite, slashed and torn and shredded and limp, from the elbow down. Sinew and muscle flapped in the crisp autumn breeze, and his silent salty tears flowed down his face, his shoulders, into his wound.

Everything was silence.

In his left hand was a chipped pocket knife, one that was supposed to hold some importance, handed down from generations of mountain fathers to sons. It too was dripping.

He stepped gently, falling forward, downhill, losing everything, satisfied at last.

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