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Flash Fiction Riddle

Posted by Rachel on January 26, 2013 in description, symbolism, writer's sketch, writing |

We collect together in a vast bastion, overlooking the darkened land below. Not a single face around me is the same. We belong to the same legion, and yet none of us are alike. Young and old, large and small. I can see warn out lines that wrinkle some of the hardened faces, and the weak grins of others. We’re prepared for the event ahead, knowing there is only one path for our short lives.

The strong, steady gray blocks that hold us back are near to letting us loose. When they finally erupt, in an army elbow-to-elbow, we escape the fortress and barrel onward. In a terrifying hoard, we rush to the battlefield and clash with our fearsome opponents. Some of my fellows die by the hands of the giants with hundreds of arms. There are those that fall into stacks, piling onto their fallen brethren—their bodies blending together. Others crash against the enemy wall and smash into a thousand pieces. There is no winning this battle. There is only the hope of surviving longer than the individual next to you. I was one to be so lucky.

I came to rest against a friend, laid out on an otherwise empty knoll. Our time grew short as dawn broke over the land and spread the suns warmth over all the fallen. The spirits of those long past faded into the morning, while those that remained could only wait for their impending death. I greeted the sun as a long-lost friend, knowing that however short my life has been, I will rise again.

What am I?

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