The Faded Root
October 12, 1893. The mud here weighs three pounds per square foot, I think, though I have never weighed it. It pulls at the boots, the boots pull at the legs, and the legs pull at the spine until the whole body is a single, heavy anchor dragging through the bog. I am Corporal Thomas Bradshaw, thirty years old, and I am counting the seconds between the cracks of the rifle. One. Two. Three. The...
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