The battle had raged. Splintered shards of men and earth scattered the land, gruesome evidence of war.
But that was long ago.
The summer holidays arrived. Young friends picnicked near the old wood, daring each other to go in.
The oldest girl ventured in first, stopped, screamed.
The long dead soldier’s bones, coloured black with age lay intertwined with the twisted trees. The wood had fed on blood and long since reclaimed the bruised earth, enveloping the horrid, brutal evidence, caressing the souls until Death came to claim his own.
The innocent ran. It was no place for a child.
The story above comes from the Friday Fictioneers photo prompt as supplied by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Each week she publishes a photo and I dutifully write a story inspired by it. Well, me and over a hundred others.