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somwhere in a remote town, in the middle of the outback, a young woman enters a quite country post office. her hands twitch with agitation and her face is worn with worry as she posts her wrinkled enelope and slips silently back into the crowd of anxious faces. yet as she stands ther, a small glimmer of hope dances in her soft grey eyes; she hasnt given up, not yet, and so she waits. silently with the others they wait for news. never breathing a word of the fear and anxiety that hangs so thickly in the air it smothers them, making it almost impossible to breathe, they wait for news; any news.
~
across the ocean, through storms and sleet the air was still as heath. the wind which for months on end had tormented them with its mournful howling was uncharacteristically silent. its anguished cry was but a whisper as it whistled through the hollow pines. for once the white abyss which mere seconds before had been a blood bath was quiet and not a soul dared to breathe.
those last moments of peace, those last seconds of stillness seemed to stretch for hours. it was as though time itself had stopped and not even a bird stirred in those last moments of serenity before with one absolute movement it was gone.
the whole place went up in smoke as the explostion shattered the white stilness. not a soul was left standing as ash and shrapnel filled the once still air. the destruction was complete in all its devastation and even the pilot of the solitarty plane gliding overhead couldn't help but glance back at the cloud and despair. even the man who had dropped the bomb could not help but question what this world ahd come to. he knew that no one would survive; and no one did.
but if someone had; if someone had survived the nuclear bomb dropped upon the un-expecting veterans as they sat silently below; they would have seen it. as the ash and smoke settled around the blackened smow they would have noticed a tattered pice of paper gently descending upon the tainted earth. they would have seen its dilapidated form as it gracefully fell like a dove descending upon the unworthy ground. and if they had peered closely they would have just been able to make it out. through the dark ash and debris, in small, curly hand writing smudged with tears they would have been able to make out words.
word that were meant for the eyes of one person only and that any one else would find meaningless and insignificant. but for the person, for whom alone the words were crafted, held great consequence and meaning.
each word was deliberately and devotedly written, each with value; holding more meaning then whole paragraphs written by most. and at the bottom of the ragged paper three words could just be make out. they had almost been worn away with the tireless tracings of loving fingers but still they could be read, through the ash and scattered remains of a lost war. three small words that for at least one solider had made it worth fighting;
"with love cassie"
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