A single gunshot echoed across the crestfallen night sky. In a daze the soldier stood up from lying flat against a bare dirt hill. A heavy weight, an anchor of pain, was pulled off his back. All the pain and sorrow that used to reside on his shoulders was gone. It left his shoulders the same time the bullet left the barrel. Sorrow and steal entered the last guys head and the war was won, but to the soldier, the battle was not won. It was a war of life, freedom, family, chooses, but in the end it meant nothing. A single gunshot started it. A single gunshot ended it. The lonesome soldier look out onto a once grassy field and saw death and loss. Fallen comrades, foes and years of battle had turned the rich earth to red mud and the furtle grass yellow with death. The scene screamed silently with sorrow and field the soldiers soil with dread. The wind whistled the echoes of war cries that had died with the men who yelled them. The soldier added his cry before turning away. He couldn't go back. His town had been reduced to ashes and all that was left to ruble. He had nowhere to go. Nothing left to go back forward. His only thought was of onward and forgiveness.
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