by Avery Hunter
Caked in No-Man’s-Land mud, ears still ringing from the explosion that took my leg—I haven’t yet realised its gone, there’s just a dull throb where it used to be—I blink shit from my eyes.
Jimmy lies next to me, a smile on his face. “It’s over, Lance,” he says, clear as day. “Isn’t the end of war beautiful?”
A mortar lands close by. We get showered in dirt again. “What’re ya talking about, y’dumbfuck?”
I look over. He’s long gone; his brains are seeping into the mud.
“Only the dead have seen the end of war,” he whispers.
Avery Hunter invented writing, the quokka (but not its propensity for sacrificing its young to predators), and mudguards for bicycles (after an unfortunate incident one muddy Monday morning). Now they teach tarantulas how to make a perfect mimosa.