Thanks to dear Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers and to Lisa for the photo.
Phylis sped along the dusty road, the thrum of her motor-bike rousing the birds from the hedgerow as she passed the verges of sweet verbena, poppies and vetch. A moment of innocence, to forget the remorseless cruelty of metal on bone day after day, the dull thud of mortar shells, the dreadful heartbeat as men fell. Phylis had felt proud to be a dispatch rider for the army, war work, classified work. Now overwhelmed by fear, every part of her being cried out ‘stop this carnage’. She must take this message, whatever the consequences.