Tuesday, May 28, 2013

100 Words a Day 283

He drew his bowstring back, along with hundreds of others. The sound of their bows straining was like the creaking of a forest in a storm. Then with a whoosh, the arrows were away, fluttering the hair of the archers. The sky wasn’t darkened by the arrows, that was nonsense made up by people trying to tell a good story, but where they struck, there were screams.

The cacophony of agony drifted across the battlefield. The lines of the opposing army crumbled. Some ran forward, some back, most simply fell where they had been standing, calling out for their mothers.

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