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.

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