RABBITS
When we were boys – before the war – we loved harvest-time.
We would surround the last stand of wheat armed with sticks
to kill the rabbits as they made a dash for freedom, then we’d ride on top
of the loaded wagon, shooting with our stick-guns at mothers and sisters,
yelling, “Bang! You’re dead!” and throwing them the rabbits to make stew.
Now we hide between the bales armed with rifles to shoot the
soldiers, and then flee like rabbits to the caves where we cook our own dinners.
They should have left our mothers and sisters alone.
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Friday fictioneers write 100 word stories each week prompted by a photograph posted on Rochelle's Blog;
http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/
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http://new.inlinkz.com/luwpview.php?id=369046