The Distant Whispers
The strap of the rifle dug into my shoulder, a familiar groove of leather and sweat, as I adjusted the scope on the M14. My left knee was a knot of screaming nerve endings, a phantom weight pressing down on the bone that had nothing to do with gravity and everything to do with the lie I was telling myself about being fit for duty. I was fifty-two years old, twenty-eight of them spent in this...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews