The Distant Whispers

added blog Literature

2026-08-18 20:36:36 -

The mud is cold against your left cheek, slick and heavy as wet wool, and the sound of your own breathing is a ragged, tearing thing in the silence that has fallen over the field. You are on your knees, your hands clawing into the churned earth, trying to find purchase, but the ground offers no resistance, only a sucking pull that threatens to drag you under. The air smells of iron and crushed...

0 Comments 0 Shares 42 Views 0 Reviews