Socks Without Holes

By Colleen Nester

Copyright 2013 Colleen Nester

Smashwords Edition

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Red liquid, smooth as a silk ribbon, mixes with the cool water of the narrow creek. It’s not long before the entire stream of water is colored crimson. Sleeping stones are painted like rich rubies while underwater sand is dyed. A brisk wind gallops through the thick air. The chill feels good after an early morning march.


My knees shatter the running water. I catch myself with my black-powdered hands. Warm blood squirts out of my ear; and I can feel my head slowly draining. Everything seems muffled: the sight of careless murder, the smell of exposed organs, the sound of firing guns, the feeling…the pain. Gazing up with tired Irish green eyes, I am frozen as a blast of dirt and rock slaps my sweaty face. To me, the noise of the explosion is delayed by three seconds.

“Cedric!” shouts a voice, strained and alarmed.

I am now sitting, watching the Confederate flag rise over the forest hill in the white smoke. Trees snap as cannons shoot. Rocks are chipped as bullets fly. Then the men come, out of the bushes and shrubs, welcoming death with every forceful stomp. Dressed in blue wool coats, they charge to battle. I watch them, knowing at least five will soon be joining my bloody rest.

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