Flash Fiction: The White Feather

Heads turned to stare. A whisper threatened to break the silence, shh-ed into submission. Some pursed their lips, their bodies straining to contain the words they longed to hurl at this man. This abomination. How dare he?

George bowed his head. Images of his friends torn apart by bullets, writhing and shrieking in agony filled his head.

The pin on his chest flashed in the sun.

Angry mutters spread through the crowd as the silence petered out. How dare he wear that instead of a poppy? What was he trying to say? That the war heroes were cowards?

The white feather fluttered in the breeze.

He wished his friends had worn them. He wished they all had.

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