War is more than death. It is mud, bugs, the weight of the packs, and the burden of innocence. Death itself was welcome. Often men looked around for the grim reaper, hoping to see him beckoning for his gesture meant the end of personal suffering.

Huddled in foxholes, we watched and waited until time to push all thought aside and shoot the enemy. The enemy looked just like us; decked out in military gear with faces covered in mud, they shot back.

Finally, the grim reaper beckoned. From here, the enemy advances. Dolls, dinosaurs, and dump trucks face our troop.

Received honorable mention on Flash Fiction blogs 100 Word Story