The Blackbird Sang
She loved this time of year, a British summertime. The light pushed at the curtains wanting to come in and wake her. The morning call of the blackbird soothed her soul.
A deafening explosion shook her out of her billet, sand rained everywhere. She felt a warm wetness hit her face. She put her hand to her face and pawed at whatever had hit her. “Jesus” she uttered as she looked at her blood soaked hand.