#winterforged

     ❝  —–  times may be different now, but you’re still a punk. ❞  there’s a joking antagonism in his tone.   ❝  you got somethin’ to say about my pancakes, old man?? for your information, they ain’t burnt, they’re crispy. EAT EM’, an shut up.  ❞   OKAY, maybe they were a little ……….. crunchy;  they’re still edible. with a minor hint of a charcoal on the taste buds.  it just adds to the flavor !  a smile cracked,  jovial & painted in old time fashion.  & for a moment, it feels just like it used to be. when they were kids, stupid & idiotic & ignorant to the ways of the sinister world neither one of them asked to be chucked into. he can almost reminisce,  but there’s something absent in his smile.  it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.  

         there's a sickness in his soul, a black thumb print that taking another life seems to leave behind.  it's the cruelness of war,  the cold depravity for survival that pumps through every soldier's veins; drilled into the SKULL like nails through wood, until the bitter numb set in. 

         ❝   think we can get all this outta here without bein' spotted?  ❞  a crisp quip, infiltrated by the stinging air.  they were on borrowed time, as alarms sounded, alerting every German in the camp to rush to battle.   the air was thick with gunpowder, & mortar.  even if they acted quick, it wouldn’t be long until they were surrounded or overtaken.  & those German camps were hell,  he still remembers the weeks he’d spent waiting to die; the days he’d spent strapped to that table,  fighting against the burning fire in his skull.  some days, he can still barely contain the nausea.