by Sarah Black
The old man looked like a stereotype, his back was curved from age, arthritis, poor nutrition during the war. He wore a checked wool cap and a sweeping white moustache. I was tall and smart in Dress Blues, two and a half gold stripes around my sleeves, a fine-looking uniform for a young Naval Officer. He wanted to show me something we had in common. He took my hand, ran my fingers along the rough plaster wall of his home. Bullet holes made sixty years ago by my country against his.
Sarah Black is a flash fiction writer, and an underground slashzine idol. (Well, not really. She just made that last part up. Click here to make a donation to Sarah, half of which will support 6S.)