But They’re Not Really Dead: Mystery Short Story
by Radine Trees Nehring
The constant “pock-pocka-pock” of the muskets wasn’t so bad. The boom of the cannons—from this distance at least—was endurable, especially for someone who had listened to rock drummers turned up loud. But the wind was sending black powder smoke straight toward them and, in this heat, that was awful. The whole idea was stupid. She was hot, sweaty, and she’d had enough.
