Mist of the Past

 Here is another short story from my archives.

                         The Mist of the Past. 

          Clair took a deep breath then five steps forward. Wow she couldn’t believe she was actually here. A cool fog had settled low on the ground. It was like a sad fairy tale. The mist of the past rising up from the green filed. She closed her eyes and watched that green field starting to flow with blood. She was standing on ground once paintedred by the blood of young boys. What a brutal misfortune for so many men. She opened her eyes and ran her hand along one of the cold white head stones. She looked down and read the word unknown on it.  His family never found out if he was alive or dead. They were never granted peace. 

          She left the headstone behind and walked farther down the hill. She could see it all. The cloud of smoke left behind after a gun was fired, the bodies falling as they were impacted by bullet or bayonet. She could hear the screams of the dying men, and the screams of the men thrusting their bayonets into the flesh of their brothers. She heard the clashing of bayonets and the boom from the guns. 

         Clair reached her hand out to a nearby tree for support. She was breathing heavily. She looked up through its big branches to the gray sky and tried to fight back the tears that welled in her eyes. This place filled her with the sad realization of war.

        “Clair, come on,” Clair’s thoughts were sent to an abrupt halt when she heard her best friends voice. She walked the rest of the way down the green hill and reached the pavement. She turned to look back at the solemn site. The white head stones glistened in under the gray sky, they were planted in ground that showed no ounce of the blood soaked into its soil. She smiled as the proud sadness settled in her heart and she whispered a prayer as she turned away from the Gettysburg National Cemetery.