Dead roses in winter, withered and defeated.
The Grand Armée reduced to an icy hell. The villages they entered had nothing to offer. They had stripped them bare of what little they had on their way to Moscow.
Starving, frost-bitten and dog-tired, he stumbled on. To drop now meant certain death. No comrade would burden themselves with a brother-in-arms. Every man for himself.
A terrifying shriek. Inhuman. A horse sacrificed for meat. Others had turned to cannibalism.
The eagle flew on the breeze, the tattered flag a symbol of the army’s shame. He would return it to Paris. What else was there to do?
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (more details HERE). The idea is to write a short story of 100 words based on the photo prompt (above).
To read stories of 100 words based on this week’s prompt, visit HERE.