The Wistful Asylum

added blog Literature

2026-08-21 15:43:21 -

The mud was black and thick as tar. It sucked at my boots with a wet, greedy sound. I tasted copper on my tongue. Blood from a cut above my eye. The air smelled of iron and rotting leaves. I was alone in the field. The enemy was gone. Or dead. Or hidden. It did not matter. My hands shook. I held my rifle like a dead thing. It was heavy. It was useless. I am Thomas Bradshaw. I was the King’s...

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