Luck
Never did we expect such power.
We stood awaiting orders that never came.
Night after night, day after day, our numbers grew.
We were unaware of the ultimate goals, but our count increased as efforts to grow our numbers through seeds planted subtly and the fluttering immersion that flowed nightly through the city.
We were regularly fed, and water was the only drink allowed.
Many days passed, and we stood staunch through rain and shine.
One day, we could feel the ground itself shudder long before the faint rumble of motorized destruction came to us.
We kept the friendships on the surface, as we knew the death toll would hit harder if we knew each other personally. I was paired… or at least next to Shamrock. I’m not sure if he’s Irish or not, but he was capped with a four-leafed clover insignia, so for lack of a better name, we took to calling him Shamrock.
We trembled, but knew we must stand strong. Though we would be cut down in staggering numbers, we could only hope for the best.
It finally arrived, and as expected, staccato sounds of my comrades as they fell—some fell fully, as if drawn and quartered—each fall sending shivers through me. The debris and shrapnel filled the air.
I was one of the lucky ones—thrice passed over.
After the second pass, I huddled together with Shamrock.
After the third pass, I looked over—and Shamrock had been sheared at the neck just below his cap.
The final pass came, as I knew it would… the death machine humming straight toward me.
But it stopped short.
The engine cut. It stood mere breaths away.
I waited.
“Mom, can I get some lemonade?” the young man hollered at the house.