Blast from the Past

first posted December 2006

The air was exceptionally still and remarkably cold. Everywhere. In the trench; within his greatcoat. Between his head and his helmet. In his glove (one was missing). In his boots. And in his food.

He had one last cigarette. Impossible to tell when or whether he would get any more. Now or later? The moon was so clear and full; what humans did was so confused and empty.

Now or later?

At home he would have been in The Anchor. But he hadn’t been there the last three Christmas Eves either.

Now or later?
Now or later?
Now.
Warmth filled him.