The dog was like a sign sent from heaven. Elegant and black, he strolled into their camp one day and sat down at his feet. He had never owned a dog, never liked nor disliked them. They simply lived alongside him. That day, when the dog sat before him, was the first time he properly looked one in the eyes. He saw himself there. Battered and bruised, a broken soul that had seen too much death and sorrow. Whenever the soldier took a blow, the dog seemed to be limping too. Whenever he was upbeat, so was the dog, and whenever he was sad, they mourned together over the endless dead bodies.
One day, he had felt a dull ache at the absence of the dog, but he hadn’t quite placed it yet, when he came upon the dog, lying dead in a ditch. He knew then that his time would soon come too. Above him, the planes circled, seconds later a bomb exploded inches from him and he joined the dog in heaven.
Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, Week of March 15
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