Cold. Wet. Dark except for the flickering dance of honeyed light. Clinging to the lee of a ditch, covered in mud and god knows what. The shuffle of boots on the tarmac above. Waiting. Waiting. Praying. Whispered voices, a distant shout, feet running. Count to ten, a deep breath, glancing left and right, silhouetted figures disappearing round a bend. Up and across the road, over a barbed wire fence, trousers snagging, ripping, blood beading. Into a stand of old birch trees, glancing back. The flames reach up for the stars. What was home is gone. Shouting. Shots. Blood pumping quick.
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.
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