Silence echoed around the small, rustic, barn, almost peircing through my thick, marshmallow-like hat. This noise is seen as something of a blessing to the younger of the group, the non-stop shelling had taken its toll on us all, but for the most part we were all focused on them; innocence was all they had left. Their faces glowing red as the vishious, sub-zero winds ripped through the chunky woolen hoods of their oversized and reused jackets - somehow leaving the myst from their chapped, cracked mouths hanging still.. Seeming to be un-shiftable as it was readyly replaced by wave after wave of lukewarm breath.
The youngest of the group, Yai, was a little older than nine; nine years old. I was nine once, lazy days, playing in the park with my family and friends, fishing with papa and hauling the catchings back to our home-town was the most work I had to do, but Yai.. Yai had already moved on past fishing, he was now sent on regular 'jobs' - moving rocks around under the barn through the small and dusty tunnels to the church and back. Harsh? You're too quick to judge, for you have no idea what this poor soul had been through, his mother had been in the hospital when the shelling had taken its first major victims, thirty of our humble town-folk - gone.
YOU ARE READING
Stained red.
Short Story{{ I don't write, if you got a problem with this and you're smart enough to complain and hate then I'm sure you're smart enough to know exactly where to stick it :3 x All views expressed by those in the story and those of the narrators are not those...
