A shaky breath rang out over the field of dead and dying. The man rose to his feet and looked out over the field. Once a beautiful thing, with green grasses to spare, it now looked bare. Bodies littered the land, and the smell of blood filled the air. This was war. And he had started it. Was it his fault, that the rebels had been outnumbered so greatly by the Defense? Was it his fault, that the President hadn’t showed any mercy? No. And yet, while he lived the war would rage on. So he picked up a gun, and shot himself square in the chest.
Marissa coughed into her sleeve. Her shirt was covered in red dust, smeared with grime and grease, and smelled heavily of gun powder. Marissa slumped against the bathroom wall, her chest heaving in and out. Smoke fogged her glasses and screams filled her ears. The sky above was tinted pink.
World War Seven had been going on for thirty-seven years.
2 replies on “The Seventh War”
What was “special” about Marissa. Why did she start the war?
This was a quick story I wrote a while ago, but it was actually not Marissa who started the war. It was her father, who killed himself to end the war and protect her.