(copyright Dawn Q. Landau)
The ruin was still there; a ragged remnant of a horrific war. The cold, grey, cement structure, once camouflaged by surrounding coral rocks, was now rose-colored. He wondered if a coat of paint eased the memories of those four days for other members of his company who were pinned down on the beach.
He’d been inside the bunker when the roof was blown off. He’d lain under the rubble for two days before he was rescued. Everyone said it was a miracle that anyone survived the bombardment.
Seventy years of life as a paraplegic, a miracle? He couldn’t answer that question.
(Written for Friday Fictioneers, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. January 10, 2014.)