The Distant Machine
1913, August 14. The mud here is not merely wet; it is a living, sucking thing that has consumed the boots of half my platoon and is now working its way into the marrow of my left leg. The shell did not kill me, but it shattered the kneecap with a precision that felt surgical, a cold fracture that split the bone and sent a shockwave of white noise through the nerves. I am Sergeant Elias Thorne,...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews