A fifty-word flash fiction writing post composed for March. This piece is a brief story about war, cold, hunger, renewed friendships, and soup.
Cruel weather. Despite modern material ingenuity, once cold seeps in, harder to recede.
Months of stand-off, no washing water, barely to drink. No fuel, ammunition low. She approaches.
Bowl in hand, she smiles. He stares a moment as steam wisps rise.
Discards Kalashnikov, takes off helmet, accepts her spoon.
Edited from an Original Anonymous Post on: