The Strange Postcard

This was inspired by a random postcard I found. At some point, I might upload it but for now you'll have to make do with this. It remains untitled.


I'd never believed in seconds winds. Let alone a third, fourth or fifth. The first was surely enough of a hurdle. Enough of a sky scraping wall. Enough of a steeple that soared with the gods. The hell that ripped through my chest was such that every inhale stung like icy needles and every exhale left my lungs burning for more. Yet there was no going back.

To press on seemed unfathomable and I had not the faintest idea where the will was born. Was he enduring the hell I was? My comrade in arms, surging forward against the intangible bonds.

"Is that all that's in you?"

His words fell like sharp, steel clamps that hacked at my slumped shoulders and with a searing flash, bolstered me up.

Agony ripped through every limb, my calves feeling as though they'd split apart and the muscle, tendril and marrow dragged behind me like a mocking mimicry of the saving bonds of our parachutes. Stoicism was never my best quality but I endured it.

Night had not long fallen when we heard the far off cries of the dying. I steadied the butt of my firearm against the overturned dirt that made up the field of graves and held on, resolute.

"You won't make it. You'll be gunned down at every half meter."

The desire to take up arms and shoot the prick down was all consuming, save the fact such a action would give away our position.

Ignoring the bastard, I slung my only true companion over my shoulder and trudged on, ready to leave him behind. But he was not so readily dismissed.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? You can't do this. You'll die."

I marched on.

"And your mother... she's old Greg, and you're an only child. Who'll take care of her?"

I raised the gun, ready to take aim.

"What about Mary, she won't make it if you don't come back."

I faltered, my first.

"You know you won't make it back. You can't do this."

I lowered the gun. I turned.

The bullet struck me, a soothing cold bursting through burning lungs.

And at long last, he was gone.


Sometimes... that voice inside your head? It can be a real son of a bitch.