Remeberance Sunday
He sat alone on the bench, watching the sunrise over the distant chimneys of the factory and noted the shadow lines creep towards his feet, bathing the cemetery in winter sun. His breath, like momentary white ghosts, became highlighted in the wan, late autumn light He had been there, contemplating, for two hours or so, ignoring the chill and watching the day unfold. How he hated this Sunday each year, hated the march of veterans, but was drawn in some morbid fascination annually. Each year, he...