Christian Yorke

Flash fiction is a short story of extreme brevity. It is said to have been around since Aesop’s Fables, and Anton Chekhov and Franz Kafka were both practitioners. Read on for an example of this fine art, called Procession to Eternity. I will be very impressed if anyone can guess who the story is about, particularly as you may need to consult your history books.

I am also very interested in reading your flash fiction, so please take this as an invitation to enter a marvellous competition. You can write about any subject, the only rule being that your story should not exceed 300 words. To enter you can either post your entry as a comment or send it to cy@christian-yorke.com. The closing date is later this month and the winner will be published in full on this twisted website.

I hope that you take part and enjoy the challenge.

Procession To Eternity

My view improved when the youngest guard lifted me above his head and displayed me to the armed multitude. Time was limited. I worked my muscles into a defiant grin and concentrated on my eyelids, determined to keep them open to the last possible moment.

I felt no sadness as I tried to recite the psalms that I had read from Henry Edgeworth’s breviary during the two hour coach ride to the Place de Louis XV. My tongue moved, but in my newly diminished form I generated no sound. The horsemen, who had numbered twelve hundred as they escorted my carriage to this place, had joined the pack. Beyond the scaffold I saw the cannons and drummers, and everywhere people waving their pikes and guns, their  innocent faces fierce, some seemingly in a state of rapture. And I realised that my perception of the beating drums and barbarous cries, that moments earlier had been so terrifying, were now a moist rumble.

The young guard lowered me so as to be level with his eyes. His tongue protruded. He stared at me making the most atrocious and indecent gestures. I was powerless to avoid the the jet of saliva that he fired into my face and then his fingers gouged my scalp as he raised my head to the grey sky. I sensed that I had but seconds left as I felt, or imagined, cold January rain striking me.

Marie and my my children were in my thoughts as the guard turned so that I faced my remains. I was still on all fours, blood spraying from the thick stump between my shoulders. My blood dripped from the axe that had been raised into the scaffold. I was no longer master of my eyes, my smile rigid. I thought once more of the psalms, sensing a new beginning.

So, now it’s your turn to show me what you can do. Watch that word count discipline and hit me with your best shot. Come on, don’t be shy, get writing and share it with the world right here at the Writer’s Twisted Web.