Rochelle set us a flash fiction challenge each Friday: one hundred words to match the selected picture. Come and have a go, if you think you’re bard enough.
I was tried and gaoled like a criminal, when I should have been lauded as a patriot. Those vermin that sold out their homeland deserved to die, instead of me. Bosnia was a real country, not a principality of Austria-Hungary or Ottoman. Now they’re parading Ferdinand’s car with my bullet holes as a novelty piece, a museum attraction, as if none of it mattered, some kind of joke. And they like to blame me for fomenting war. Millions died. How will I ever rest in peace?