This is a work of fantasy. It is not about real people, and if
it is, its not what they would do. (not that you are likely to know
them anyway). If you are under 18, go away, since I don’t like to get
in trouble. If you are turned off by perversion, what are you doing at
asstr? In other words, go away. If none of this applies to you, great!
Read on! Have fun! Let me know
what you like!
Oh, and I work hard on my writing…so guess what? It's mine.
That’s right boys and girls…i'ts copyrighted…so if you want it? Just
ask- we’ll talk.
Note:
This was done for Desdmona's "Ziegfried Follies Girls "
Challenge
Dryad
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The Paper (Rom, Historical)
By Dryad
The paper was here.
She flew out the door, only partially dressed, her once chic
sleeves slipping down her arm.
She ran far into the backyard, under the apple trees, away from
her family and friends, as she had done every day since he’d left. This is
where he left her, where he knelt, and placed his head in her lap. Where she
wept, and hid her pain, so she could focus on the work that needed to be
done.
She scanned the front page, “A Nation in Mourning” and saw that
the battle at Courcelette was bloody and costly.
Her hand shook, and the paper rattled. She dropped the paper
to her side, not willing to look and see if his battalion, his company, his
name was listed. Her eyes glazed over in memory instead, pressing down the
panic. He was beautiful, tall and straight, the uniform making him a sexy
stranger, but she shook her head slightly, the uniform was her enemy; it took
him away from her. It hid him from her, hid his soft skin, dragged him into
danger. Her hand reached out to the image in her mind to stroke his cheek
and watch him smile. With another shake of her head, she let her hand drop
back into her lap.
His last letter placed him in France, weary but excited.
They would show the Kaiser what they were made of. The big push was coming
and then he would return, and they would marry and he would spend the ensuing
years showing her exactly how much he missed her. She wound her dreams around
his promises, as she wound spools of bandages with the Red Cross, trying to
keep her mind separate from her hands.
Her shaking hand reached for the paper. She took a deep
breath, almost knowing, having to know. Her hands shook as she turned to the
list of dead and missing.
She shook her head slightly. Strange the photographer would
choose apple trees as the background. It didn’t matter anymore. She
couldn’t stand being around the friends and family, their pity was more than
she could handle. She ran away, buried her true self with him. She let
her sleeve drop lower. It didn’t matter if she coquetted for the camera
or for the men who watched her on stage; the only one that mattered was gone.
Copyright Dryad ([email protected]) 2002