Minor characters only see the glow from the flash fiction - there and gone, just as they were. I have always felt a guilt that those people were as deserving as any family member and yet heard, "No full-length novel for you!"
My last FF piece was about a Trowbridge who lived against all odds. This week's offering on the next page is about a Hamilton whose life was taken from him. We would never know how it happened if someone hadn't told his parents an ugly truth. Was the horror of wasting this wonderful young man in such a way worse than having him fall on the field of battle?
How could the truth hurt more than the deceptive phrases we dream up to glorify war?