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Little Drummer Boy

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The flame of dawn. Brilliant gold bleeding into nights oblivion as the lonely yellow disk struggles to climb the horizon. The bright light of the early morning sun flushes across the bloodied rolling foothills, throwing the long dead soldiers into great relief. The dawn is still and silent. A lonely heart beats to its own imagery rhythm. A death hymn. Drums, once resonating proudly across the hills now lay silently at its former players side. The boy, no older than thirteen, stays, deathly still. The repetitive beating of those same drums still ringing in his ears. His eyes, two perfect pools of blue, stare lifeless to the heavens above. The boy blinks once, slowly. Eyelids laden with fatigue. He heaves a heavy, tired sigh of contentment as the rising sun warms his icy cheeks. Frigid gusts of wind whip across the Moore. Lashing violently at his clothes, sodden by the blood of the fallen. The metallic sting of a bullet, greatly overshadowed by the emotional agony in his chest. He does not want to die. He does not want to be forgotten.

By sunhigh the wind drops. Leaving a mournful silence in its wake. Not a single Heart is beating.