One in a Million
A faint breeze rustles the leaves, an ominous hiss rising and falling in steady rhythm. A crow darts his head round, the morning dew glistening of his obsidian black feathers. Watching…waiting.
Then a singular sound shatters the silence.
Rat-tat-rata-tat-tat…slowly it gets louder….Rat-tat-rata-tat-tat….louder, closer…a nearby rabbit jerks its head up, nose twitching…Rat-tat-rata-tat-tat….still it grows…then they appear.
Over the dew soaked emerald grass, through the think fog, silhouetted against the dimmed morning sun, faint shapes can be seen. Ghosts…ghosts on Flanders fields.
“PRIVATE!” the Sergeant spat
“Sir!” the young soldier answered nervously.
“What in all ’hat is holy do you call this!” he yelled pointing at the gleaming musket in the private’s hand.
“A musket sir” he replied
The Sergeant swore, “don’t give me any of that filthy cheek. RUST! that’s what it is rust! Now don’t you tell me your planning killing any of ‘em frogs with a RUSTY MUSKET!”
The private knew full well that the musket was completely clean. He also new that the Sergeant spitting in his face was bored, and what to people in power do when there bored, well exercise there power of course! But, before the Sergeant in question had time to think up a suitable punishment, a trumpet sounded.
“Fall in you dirty rats!” the Sergeant screamed. The company formed into a marching column.
“The company will advance” came a cry from further up the field. “By the left…march!” It shouted.
The company of ‘Redcoats’ marched to the sound of the drum and fifer along the fog drenched road.
Suddenly an explosion was heard in the distance, followed by an eerie silence.
“See boys” an officer yelled “you’ve got nothing to worry about, those frogs couldn’t hit water if they fell out of a-- The officer was cut short as a huge explosion ripped through the column. Hot casing and shrapnel flew in all directions, sending men soaring flew the air. The cries and screams of the wounded was only blocked out as a massive volley of musket fire shot out from the roadside. A man was thrown backwards, a musket shot to is belly, a silent cry on is lips.
The Private dared not move, after he was sure the attackers had left, he dragged himself to his feet and surveyed the horror around him. He thought he was alone, but then as he turned a cry of anger rose to meet him. He whipped around only to be met with a with a gleaming silver blade and the heavy hooves of huge white stallion.
He was just another name, just another statistic. The crow blinked, then swooped down to feed. They were all the same to him, just another meal, and this was just one…one in a million.
One in a Million
) that a whipped up in some spare time. Anyway i do hope some of you enjoy it.
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