The Faded Sutra
The mortar shell hit the bell tower of St. Jude’s not with a thunderous boom, but with a wet, sickening crunch, like a boot stepping into a bowl of thick, curdled milk. I was standing in the nave, my service rifle slung across my chest, the brass fittings cold against my skin, watching the dust settle in the shafts of grey afternoon light that still pierced the shattered clerestory windows. The...
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