The Pale Garden
The mud of the Somme sucked at your boots with a wet, gluttonous sound, a noise that seemed to come from the earth’s own throat. Your left arm hung useless at your side, the bone beneath the skin a jagged white thing that pulsed with every heartbeat, a metronome counting down the seconds until the end. You screamed, the sound tearing out of your throat raw and ugly, cutting through the fog of...
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