Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Blood That Shames the Red, Red Rose

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“Are you sending me home, ma’am?” he asked, coughing into the damp air.

The violent movement sent a fresh flood of claret to struggle against the haphazard field dressing.

“Yes, soldier, you’re going home,” I sighed in contempt.

I signaled to our radioman to order the medevac to grant this boy the illicit dignity of losing his final breath on American soil.

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Icon of a hand, hoding a pen, writing love, peace, and adobo grease, Guilliean