This story is prompted by the photo below, kindly provided by J Hardy Carroll for this week’s Friday Fictioneers, https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/. Many thanks to Rochelle for facilitating the site.
The story has 98 words.
Please accept my apologies (especially if you’re American) for the strange dialect I’ve imposed on the characters. I have no idea where I think they come from. In my defence, I’m probably wreaking belated revenge for the episode of Frasier in which Daphne’s Mancunian boyfriend sounded like a cockney (probably not the poor actor’s fault, I’m sure he tried hard to get the “British” accent right).
Out of the mouths …
Peeping over the wall, the older boy whispers, ‘Look, there they are.’
‘They ain’t got wings’, his brother answers.
‘They’s battlefield angels. Wings’d git in the way.’
‘And they’s just kids.’
‘So’s not to scare the wounded soldiers.’
‘So what do they do, the angels?’
‘Keep our soldiers safe. If they cain’t, they come here, check up on ‘em.’
‘What about the other soldiers?
‘They’s got they own God.’
‘They have angels too?’
‘What kind of – ‘
A woman enters the churchyard and the boys flee.
‘Girls,’ the Chief Bridesmaid shouts, ‘Quit playin’ and git back in church.’