Friday Fictioneers: The Secret Place


It is a secret. My secret. A place to hide. A place to breathe. A place forgotten. Once it was the lifeblood of men and women. Cool, clear water to quench their thirst, wash away the dust and the dirt of their toils in the fields. When war came they died here, brothers, sons and fathers. Their blood stained the water red. Their bodies lay where they had fallen. Lost and forgotten. The earth claimed them back, claimed the land and the water. Now flowers bloom here again. I come to remember. To hear the voices whisper on the wind. To know there is peace somewhere, somehow. Someday I will lie down here and sleep.

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0 thoughts on “Friday Fictioneers: The Secret Place

  1. Good piece. Reminds me of a time, back in the early 80s, when I was walking in the quiet Yorkshire countryside with a recent refugee from Vietnam. He said suddenly: Bomb. And I saw that we stood on the edge of a WW2 bomb crater, now overgrown with bushes grass and trees. I would have missed it, but bomb craters were fresh in his memory.

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