A Short Fiction
Grandad would tell us the stories every evening while Gramma listened.
How he remembered the glorious revolution, when he was a young boy. How he was called to do his duty, and did not hesitate. How he fought alongside his friends, and how some of them fell. He would take Grammas’s hand in his, he would tell us he fought for Grandma, and he would smile.
After he died, Gramma told us her story.
“He was fourteen, and they gave him a gun and a uniform,” she told us. “It was the most terrifying of times.”
Gramma didn’t smile.