My father went to war this morning.
Mother wept, and told him not to go. Told him we were going to lose any day now, and that fighting was sheer folly. She clutched at his uniform, fingers scraping down the red, white and black armband. He pushed her away without a word.
He said goodbye to me on the doorstep. Behind him, Berlin burned. Smoke obscured the morning sun, and I could taste ash on the wind.
His hand on my shoulder, he said he’d be back soon. I knew he was lying.
Samuel Edwards was born and raised in Leeds, England, and no matter how far away he gets, he is always compelled to return to Yorkshire. He has a Bachelor of Arts Honours Degree from the University of Leeds, and enjoys dark coffee, even darker chocolate, and long walks. Samuel writes mainly to impress his pet cat, a feat he will never accomplish. Previously published in Vestal Review, The Birdseed, and Fairfield Scribes. Tweets at @Sam_Edwards1990.
The Centifictionist 
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