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Short story: <i>The Battle</i>

The assembly look smart; boots that glisten, bayonettes that gleam, hats sitting regally as even their feathers stay firm in the gentle breeze.

The eyes of each soldier stares unwaveringly ahead, no blinking or trembling here. These soldiers look like the aristocracy, not the proletariat. Merely glancing at their ranks in passing generates a wave of pride, a glorious stirring of patriotism even in the most unlikely of breasts.

When the charge occurs and the horn blows, there is no hesitation. The hats stay firmly in place. Boots retain their shine under the mud of the battle field. Bayonets gleam with blood.

The eyes of each soldier stare unwaveringly ahead, as with the animal cunning of the pack they trample over their fallen comrades who are left with mere stumps for limbs, tearing and panting, bloody and wild.

The survivors are no longer mistaken for aristocrats.

Their eyes burn, unwavering.

Filling the breasts of their observers with fear.

This is the result of a fifteen minute writing exercise. The only constrictions were the time limit and five randomly selected words from the dictionary. Today the words were aristocracy, assembly, generates, stumps, and hesitation.

Image courtesy of atomicShed.

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