Adam Thomas

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Hooded figures stooped in the shadow of a crumbling brick wall. Two, four, or ten Aleksander tried, wished, not to know. Braced against the whistling wind, his body shook. Please, no more. No more. There. Is. No need. Hugging a standard issue twill coat to him, Aleksander let the rifle slip in hand. A pair of stiff marchers deposited another soul with the rest, it collapsed. Reminding him of a loose sack of potatoes. Despite his overwhelming need to be away, Aleksander noticed this one was his today. The soldiers and sacks were respectively distanced in their own neat rows on either side of the courtyard. If one could call it a yard. Of course, each row faced the same wall, but each possessed a markedly different view.