This is a small sample of my prose writing, in the form of flash fiction.
All Said and Done
And then there was nothing.
Or, thereabouts. Who’s counting?
The light had gone out and the final decaying elements agreed that the last one out would turn off something that no longer existed. Space was returning to its namesake, and became dutifully barren, empty and lifeless.
One said to the Other, “So, what was the point anyway?”
To which the response was “What? Fuck, don’t ask me.”
Then One said, “Surely, if the whole thing was bound eventually to decay into nothing, without order or reason, there can’t have been a point to it all anyway.”
The Other replied: “I suppose. Honestly, all that introspection was never my deal. Didn’t have the time.”
Gravity ceased to function in any meaningful way.
One waited for a moment before piping up. “Well, there won’t be any time for much longer, so we have forever to talk about it.”
Other sighed, and said “I thought you could take a hint. I don’t do introspection.”
The response was indignant: “Well, extrospection’s all well and good until there’s nothing left to look at.”
In the silence that followed, a hundred universal constants became wandering, inconstant masses of gibberish which only held any meaning in an unimaginable time of all that had come before.
Other thought long and hard before replying. “It reminds me of a religious saying,..”
One cut across: “Religion isn’t going to help you now.”
The response was terse: “In ancient times, there were metaphors. In the days when people died, they said ‘ashes to ashes, dust to dust’. All of this began as nothing – or something, still haven’t cracked that – and soon it will be nothing – or something, just in a manner we could never hope to conceive. It’s circular. So, there wasn’t a point, other than to complete a full circle and end up back where we started.”
One offered, “Maybe we were meant to enjoy the bit in between. Make the most of it. Achieve something, do everything, see everything.”
The other responded, “But we didn’t. We chased achievement that was measurable, until there was nothing measurable left. What a colossal shitshow.”
Cutting across again, “We saw the mountains, and the oceans, and the moon and the stars, and the worlds beyond. Did that mean nothing?”
The answer was not fulfilling: “We threw our waste on the mountains, we poisoned the oceans. We sent our tools of destruction to other worlds, and blocked out the stars with our monuments to misery. We had a chance to do it right, and we didn’t. And now it’s over.”
A hopeful voice interjected then: “It’s not quite over yet.”
And then it was over.
Neither one, nor the other, nor light nor dark, nor up nor down, nor the leptons, which formed atoms, which formed amino acids, which formed cells, which formed beings which crawled out of the mud to build biblical skyward towers of shining glory existed anymore.
And then there was nothing, and nothing left to count.
The Beginning and the End
The tiniest piece was worked free, and that was all that mattered.
A single touch with the energy of a thousand suns left that which should be indivisible scattered, and, in an infinitely intimate space, energy beyond any person’s comprehension spread like the most ardent of flames. They reached every part of that space, until nothing was left untouched and the passion of the gods themselves was unleashed. What had started could never be undone.
What had begun with the passion of those beyond the control of their own minds became something so striking in its existential beauty it should never be witnessed. Hauled apart by circumstance, they were drawn together in inevitably equal fate. Nothing would ever be the same again.
They would not feel what they had become alone. Their fervour was seismic, such was the intensity of the unstoppable attraction of their most indivisible parts. That which could not be less than itself had been torn asunder and the consequences could tear an entire world apart.
A fire leapt forth and consumed their small world, until nothing remained. All that had come before was no more, and what remained was twisted beyond the recognition of anyone who had seen the world as it had been. It crumbled the very walls of reality to dust. That which should never be controlled could not be, and it was burning like a covenant beyond the divine.
It was close now, and the winds of eternity could be heard. Life and death and dark and dawn and the majesty of the infinite universe no longer mattered. How could they? This was the summit of everything, and it would surmount everything else. With moments left, there was no other way this could end, with the beginning of something new.
And then it was over. Nothing remained. Nothing left to do. They just had to look at what they had done, and mourn its passing. And yet, there was nothing left to mourn, and no-one left to care.
I Told You So
Stinging.
The only thought that could break through the haze of black smoke was the pain coursing through his body.
His lips grasped for clean air that couldn’t be found. A taste of burning on everything pervaded his being; he could only choke on its fumes. The stench of certain death filled his lungs.
The ground below was inviting and rushed to meet him with open arms. There was an almighty thud that no one else heard. The feet all about him kept rolling on like thunder, over, around and across him. He was lucky not to have been crushed yet.
His face buried deep in filth and grit, he could see nothing around him. Then again, you never saw a battle. You heard it.
The terrible sounds of the anger of absent men filled the air.
Screams, howls, the thump of cannon, the crack of muskets. Unadulterated brutality scorched the very earth beneath their feet. There was no reprieve.
A call came and the feet around him came to a halt. There was a pause before the shots rang out, rank by rank.
*
It was a warm morning in June when a most magnificent sight came tramping over the hill. All around, people stopped what they were doing to stare in wonder at the new arrivals. Maybe two dozen young men, their faces glowing with pride, followed a train of bright red coats, colours blazing overhead.
The drums split the still air, followed by flutes and trumpets. A tight formation of diminutive figures lit up a rousing tune at a steady rhythm. Their leader, maybe ten or eleven, seemed to bring them like the Piper, his train enchanted by his music. The feet of the men following joined the percussion and made an unmistakable sound together.
At the head of it all was the most striking figure. A portly man, swaying as he marched, thrusting his chest at least a full foot ahead of himself, tramped forward. He held aloft a great long rapier, the end tied with ribbons of red, white and blue. The chevrons adorning his sleeve shone like the sun, blinding white like a fog light in the night.
With a palpable determination, they made for the squat public house which sat on the edge of the village. As they came closer, the pace seemed to quicken. So, too, did the feet of the curious.
A steady stream of locals made their way up to the inn, many muttering between them as they came. They followed the party inside, some curious, some scrounging. Amongst them was a rakish young man with a shock of strawberry-blond hair.
Johnny, along with many of the others, knew well what this new arrival meant. This recruiting sergeant had been seen enough time by those who’d spent at least a few summers in Harrabeer. His coming meant two things.
The first was that the ale would flow very freely all evening; the King’s purse was open. Laughter and song would ring through the village until long after dark. There would be dancing and merriment of all sorts, until all had collapsed right where they stood.
The second was that temptation would leave them a few hands shorter come harvest. Winter in those parts was hard, summer not much less so. A shilling each day was nothing to be sniffed at, with food and drink provided.
More so was the glory promised. Each man could see himself there. A scarlet coat and smart black shako were a fine sight together. To see them marching to the tune under a bright foreign sun, every man doing his duty to his king. It was romantic, honourable, heroic and everything else the sergeant said it was.
“You must be a fool, young man.”
Johnny turned to see who had spoken. It was old Jan Briar, the cobbler. A man to listen to on the rare occasion he was sober enough to string together a coherent sentence.
“I can see you staring,” the old man continued as he took a stool next to Johnny at the bar. “I’m sure you think you’d look fine in one of those uniforms. I tell you, those uniforms don’t look so smart when they’re packed full of shot.”
“Perhaps,” Johnny replied, “but those men aren’t full of lead. They’re full of life, so it looks from here.”
He drained the dregs of his drink, before standing and wobbling over towards the company at the centre of everyone’s attention. Before he could get there, however, a hand sprang from the throng to grab his. Suddenly, he was face to face with the freckles and curls he knew well as Molly Batt.
“Where do you think you’re going? I need someone to dance with.”
Johnny smiled lopsidedly. “I’m going to be a soldier, Molly.”
“You can be a soldier tomorrow, tonight you’re a dancer.”
With that, she hauled him away from the crowd, and the pair began to trample the floor. Their feet beat a heavy rhythm which bore scarce relation to Mr Tamm’s fiddle. They span together in a dizzying pattern, but soon found a steady shape between them.
Several couples had taken the floor by this time, and the clapping to each seemed more like confused applause than music. It was as if a dionysian madness had overtaken the whole place. Mugs overflowed, feet slid in puddles of liquor, and the poor choices to come could be seen on every face.
It was an almighty crash that brought many to their senses, as George Dyer, a great mountain of a man, went careening into the bar behind him. There was a sharp intake of breath as he reached up to feel the back of his head. Then, laughter erupted once again as he shouted: “don’t worry, just a bruise”.
With this escape from the dance, Johnny gave a bow to his partner and turned to walk over to where the men in their smart, red coats occupied a handful of tables in the corner. He had to stagger around the bodies which were already dropping to the floor, the carnage already starting to fill the space with those certain they would not see the dawn. Finally pushing through to his objective, he set a hand heavily on the nearest table to steady himself.
“You look like an eager face,” remarked the sergeant. He affected a strange kind of faux-plummy voice that didn’t quite fit in his mouth. It was as if he wanted to sound like the officer he was never born to be.
“Well, I think I’m more than that,” Johnny responded, “I reckon I can show you a brave soldier too.”
“Very well, we’ll need your sign and you’ll need the King’s shilling.”
One of the soldiers slid a heavily-worn piece of paper across the table. This gave Johnny a pause.
“I’m right sorry, sir, but I’ve no sign to give, having no writing.”
The corporal holding out the pencil smiled before reassuring him.
“We don’t need any letters, just some mark will do.”
Johnny followed the example of a couple of others in scrawling an ‘X’. As this was done, he saw the face of his sovereign slide across the table towards him. He quickly snatched it up and broke it at the bar with another foaming mug for himself, as well as one for Molly.
As he turned to look for her, he scanned across a room of decaying debauchery. He finally saw her laughing with a friend he couldn’t quite make out in the candlelight. Coming closer, he realised it was Mary Dyer, George’s younger sister. They were deep in conversation, occasionally glancing sharply towards the soldiers and recruits.
As Johnny came closer, he could make out snatches of their conversation.
“I tell you, they won’t look half as smart when they’ve got their coats full of holes.” Mary was cackling.
“The jacket I could darn, it’s the rest I’d worry for!” Molly laughed back.
This latest remark left the pair in fits of guffaws. Johnny held back for a moment, trying to look more interested in his drink than anything else. As he looked down, he edged closer to the conversation of interest.
“It would take some fool to take that shilling,” remarked Mary, “No matter how shiny it is.”
“It can buy you a good coffin,” laughed Molly, “if you even get it. I hear they stop it for all sorts. Boot blacking, shirt whiting, ale and all.”
“I’d feel some pity to any who’d be so daft. Especially if they were listening in.”
Johnny quickly became aware of two pairs of eyes burning hard into the side of his quickly reddening face.
“Johnny,” called Molly, “I don’t suppose you’ve done something proper daft just now?”
“Molly, there’s nothing daft in being a soldier,” Johnny croaked. “I was a dancing fool before, but I’m a brave man now.”
“I’m sure you are.”
She stood and turned to the door.
*
It was a harsh sun that rose on a morning of disquiet. Each man knew his duty, and dreaded it. There seemed to be far more than usual that needed doing right away.
The air sang with the rasp of whetstone on bayonet, the hammering of nails into worn boots, and the grinding of powder. Johnny’s boots were blacker and shiner than they’d ever been. There were more than enough voices which grasped at songs that each knew better than their own hearts and not a single one felt.
Those few men of reading held out what scraps of a once good book as could be found. Tales of forgiveness weren’t so popular as the revelation that all things would come to a head in a great battle.
It seemed at least a little prophetic.
“Over there,” shouted a tall, slender sergeant in a gruff, booming voice, “is a town they like to call Tally-vera.”
Yet another loud and aimless speech would be less than useless. At least it passed the time.
When at last a merciful messenger came, the whole company, Johnny certainly included, were glad to fall in.
There was a great plume of dust rising into the wide blue behind them. They slowed only a little as they came finally to the wide plain below, keeping a steady rhythm assured by the lad who marched with them only half the size needed to hoist a musket to his shoulder.
At the order, screamed by a drunken fop with far more medals than seemed possible at his age, the whole party halted. They stretched themselves out to fill the gap left for them, though there seemed far more space than men to fill it. They waited in silence, craning to catch the first glimpse of their distant enemy.
It was then that the day was split by an unmistakable thump. It whistled far above them, before falling only a dozen yards short. There were more than enough uniforms already dirtied by the sods that rained down on them.
Johnny reached to rub the spot on his head that had been struck. The rest of the company were far more focused ahead to give any sympathy.
Smoke rose all around them, as more shells fell on all parts of the line. Men rushed to fill the gaps left by the corpses they nearly tripped on.
The haze was impenetrable to their eyes. All they could hear were the terrible drums that foretold their undoing. The tramping of unwavering, unfriendly feet.
“Vive l’empereur!” was the cry that came from the mist. Countless voices in unison.
Then a figure, maybe a few.
Sharpshooters.
The first fired, and horse to their left whinnied and bucked before hitting the ground.
The line wavered, just for a moment. Shuffling feet and a rumble of nerves washed over the company like a wave.
Then a burning hole was torn across Johnny’s right side.
There was an almighty thud no one else heard.