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The mud clung to Private Thomas Whitaker’s boots like the memories he couldn’t shake. It was late November, 1917, on the Western Front. The wind screamed across the trench line, whipping the canvas sheets and drowning out the moans of the wounded. The stench of gunpowder, blood, and rot was constant—so much so that he could hardly remember what fresh air felt like.
By Awais 8 months ago in History
In the heart of a vast, sun-baked jungle, where trees once stood lush and rivers flowed freely, a terrible drought had settled. Day after day, the sun scorched the land, turning green to brown and drying up every puddle, stream, and pond.
By Awais 9 months ago in Fiction
