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The Pen is Mightier than the Sword

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Author's note: I can't clame credit for the title, it's lifted directly from the last sentence of this article: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-middle-east-20272649

 

 

 

Children once played in this square. I once played here a long time ago...

 

You can still vaguely see the outline of a swing, once painted bright red. Rust has laid a claim on what little metal remains, two posts standing on either side of the bomb crater, solitary witnesses to what once was. I still remember the laughter of children turning into screams of death as the bombs and shells had started falling. That had been a lifetime...three months ago.

 

I turn my one good eye on our prisoner. A soldier, one of them. Doesn't look any older than my eldest had been. He died when the University District was overrun in the first week. One of the lucky ones.

 

It's easier to think that you're already dead. Each morning you live is a pleasant surprise then, each enemy soldier you kill is one more you expected to outlive you. Each life you save...but no, I don't save lives any more. My days of operating are gone as surely as my eye and three fingers. Luckily you only need one finger to pull the trigger, they haven't taken that away from me yet.

 

I take one last, hasty puff from my cigarette, a newly developed habit. Yet again fighting down the urge to scratch the itch of my missing eye underneath the cloth, I lift up the rifle and before the boy soldier has the time to say anything I send him to hell. The silence shatters as blood comes gushing out his forehead.

 

"Forgive us," I whisper, not really meaning it, but putting on a regretful air for the benefit of my men.

 

The patrols will come now, they always do. We'll be long gone, leaving the usual grisly souvenir for them.

  • 2 weeks later...
  • 2 weeks later...

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