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. 

What follows is the first part of a new short story. Fresh out of the slammer, Jed decides to atone for a life of violence by starting a new religion with Terry, his best pal in the world. Unfortunately, that nasty past is stalking him, and mapping out a new mass belief system may yet be the least of Jed’s worries. Enjoy…

“I’m thinking of starting a religion,” said Jed, tapping his nose with a BIC.

“You’ve got the time, if nothing else, I suppose,” said Terry vaguely, still struggling to accept the damage inflicted on him by the Psycho Cash Beast fruit machine. He took advantage of the long, reflective, silence (that had recently become the hallmark of their beery benders) and necked his Hobgoblin before adding, “You’ll need to be careful with the terrorism issues though.”

Although Jed was also giving the fruit machine daggers, and despite the pain of last night’s solo session that began the moment his mum went to bed and ended (albeit temporarily) when he passed out just before dawn as the TV hit a low ebb, he nodded, rising. He closed his puffy eyes, but they watered nonetheless as their dark booth was brightened by the long shards of light that dared to illuminate certain parts of The Black Cross Public House.

“I’m off for a slash Tel, don’t do nothing stupid,” said Jed.

He returned after a lengthy interlude and some very wild banter with Marion, the obese barmaid, carrying two fresh pints and some used envelopes. He sat down quickly, wondering when, if ever, he’d grow tired of the ‘let’s use all three urinals at the same time’ game. Eager to hide the evidence of his deteriorating aim and increasingly serious ‘after-leak’ he growled, “If I’m to do this properly I gotta take some notes.”

With a virtuous wink Jed patted Vindaloo, the cheerful pub dog who had lumbered over for some scratchings, before selecting the largest envelope. Then with great care (tongue out, rasping chest etc) he wrote “New Religion” next to, but avoiding, a second class stamp.

“Them terrorists are real buggers. Are you sure that’s the place to start? You don’t want to muck up something as serious as this,” counselled Terry who seemed transfixed by Jed’s every penstroke, craning across the table for a more perfect view.

Jed flopped back and sighed, letting all the impure air from his body. “I hear you mate. I just wanna do something half decent with me life, you know? I’ll be forty five in a month and I’ve got a shit load of wrongs to right with whatever time I’ve got left. Get me shit together with a clean slate…Jesus, Terry, have those kids put this on, you know how much I hate The Rolling Stones…”

“Isn’t it Van Morrison? Yeah, you daft arse it’s Brown Eyed Girl…”

“Look!” whispered Jed. “They’re still  staring at me. Are they mugging me off or what?”

“Nah mate, they’re just kids from the estate having a laugh. They ain’t worth shit. Any road, weren’t you about to work some magic and create a new religion?”

With a sneering lip Jed faced his pint, but kept the six youngsters under surveillance from the corner of his eye. They were milling around near the pool table, chucking darts at each others feet. The majority of the pub’s floor was covered with a fawn pine-style vinyl tile arrangement, but the pool area boasted cork tiles which were ideal for such activity. Oh to be young again, if only for a day, thought Jed, his fist clenching involuntarily as he remembered whiling away many a lazy afternoon throwing darts at other boys. Near the dartists two other lads laughed like seagulls and waved pool cues at each other like long wooden rapiers whilst from the farthest corner a thin fox-faced boy was busy trying to lob a pool ball into an old man’s Guinness. Strangely, the old man barely protested. This was probably because he knew that the lads were just having a right old laugh. Alternatively, it might have been through fear, or because he was discretely trying to find his coat that one of the lads had rammed behind the TV that was blasting out racing results.

Jed became aware that he was neglecting his best friend in the world. Luckily, Terry was still obsessing about the terrorism issue, it being a bad thing and really difficult, only pausing occasionally to tut and rub his dark chin.

“Ain’t that Sean Feanie’s boy? He looks very familiar. See? Tel, shut it about them bleedin’ suicide squads for half a minute and look at this runt with the tattoos.”

“That’s Feanie’s lad alright,” chuckled Terry as though remembering a private joke. “He’s called Darrell or something. And behind him, the balding fatboy in the Millwall shirt, that’s Timothy Tattersall. They call him Treacle and word is they’re a pair of puffs. Think the rest of them are squaddies. They hang out here a lot these days, when they’re not up The Copper Horse.”

“Stone me, last time I saw Darrell and little Tim they can’t have been more than ten or eleven,” said Jed in a deep, morbid, voice that to some people might have suggested regret at not being around on the Stoney Knoll Estate, or here in The Black Cross Public House, to watch them growing up. He smiled over at the boys, even though there was little hope of them recognising him, let alone inviting him over to impress them with stories about doing hard time. Deep down he knew that time had severely worked him over. Like all middle-aged men he avoided mirrors, but he knew that more than a few crushing fists had permanently disguised him; no branch of medical science (not even in the USA) could repair his nose that was smeared across his cheeks and he knew, deep down, that he would never again sport a quiff like The King.

Even his own mother had gagged when she first beheld him after he was released just before Christmas. But he had nowhere else to go, and she took him in after a frank discussion that had also involved some of the neighbours. Since then the pressure of sharing the flat, his nan’s harsh gaze and the way his mum had started cowering whenever he staggered in with a bag of chips or a bird after a bender had sometimes made rage burn in his eyes. But he was a good boy and never once raised a fist to any of them. Not anymore, those days were gone for good. And anyway, those raging eyes now evidenced too many years of being afraid, living in close confinement with men who were stronger than him and whose presence gave him sleepless nights.

Jed lifted his weary face from his hands. “Get us another beer Tel boy whilst I go and say hello to the lads.”

“You sit tight, they’ll only wind you up.”

Jed suddenly sat rigid. “Did you see that?” He was whispering, hiding his lips with his giant hand. “Look! Tel!”

For some reason Terry’s bottle had gone and he started shrugging. The idiot wasn’t even looking properly, but Jed didn’t correct him because he had bigger fish to fuck. The one and only Darrell Feanie had stepped forth, slowly turning to face Jed, their eyes locked. As time slowed, the squaddies seemed out of focus as Darrell raised his right arm and extended his index finger like a gun barrel until it pointed at Jed’s face. Darrell recoiled as he pulled the trigger, eyes still locked, then he blew across his smoking finger tip until his digital pistol was no more.

“Did you see that?” rasped Jed, checking his forehead. “That liberty taking fucker needs an urgent spank up the hole like in the old days…”

“Fuck me Jed, they’re just pissing about.”

“They’d have had that Darrell in a cage in Victorian times. With a wig and a christening gown. That’s how dwarves made a living in them days, in the circus like.”

“Come on big feller, you’re getting sentimental on me.”

It was true. Jed was feeling sentimental, but his overwhelming urge, despite all the resolutions he’d made, was to crack Darrell’s skull in two. Jed was rising, intent on making his point whatever the consequences, but Terry gently held his forearm.

“Sit yourself down you old queen, it’s still early,” said Terry, watching the lads shooting pool and tossing arrows.

“If that toad bastard looks at me again…”

“I know, I know,” said Terry in a way that was dangerously close to sarcastic. “Let me get the beers and you can tell me all about that new religion of yours. The last thing you need is a war cause you’ll be the mug what gets banged up again. You’ve done enough time for one life mate, paid the price like. I know it’s tough adjusting to life on the outside but…”

“Don’t say another fucking word Tel, I ain’t in the mood for one of your ‘I’m a nice family man in me poncy terrace with me obliging old girl and me perfect kiddies’ lectures. You don’t know shit about what I’m going through so don’t embarrass yourself,” said Jed, holding his empty pint glass under Terry’s nose, hand shaking, constantly glancing at the games area with the hint of a tremble in his voice.

Subsequent parts will follow in the near future dear readers…

CY NOTE-I must warn you that the following short story addresses adult themes and contains nasty words. It is about loneliness, vulnerability and lost hope. It is a classic erotic odyssey in the traditional sense.

Janet smiled at the beaten boiler, the bait, that she had spent most of last night sledgehammering. She still wore the bra and knickers that had seemed so empowering in that frenzy of preparation, albeit now concealed under an unseasonal summer dress. She rinsed the wine glass that had seen her through two bottles of red, and added a slug of Gordons. She steadied herself against the sink and winked at her reflection smeared across the black, rain battered window.

When the bell finally tolled she sighed and undid more buttons. She slipped a hand down her panties, then primed her tongue with a dab of her slightly acidic juice. In the dim hall she felt embarrassed by her clownish attempts to reapply lipgloss and shoved the lodger’s abandoned bike against the wall.

At the door, she purred, “Who’s there?” through the peephole. Encouraged by some grunts outside she managed to work her keys (at the third attempt) before bumping her head with an unpredicted stumble. When she finally flung open the front door she gazed down at the stumpy plumber and congratulated herself on choosing leopard print ballet pumps over the more obvious heels.

“Afternoon love, so where is it?” asked U-Bend We Mend’s northern representative, lugging his box of tricks over the threshold of brown envelopes. His name tag read Jerry.

Janet giggled, beckoning him into the flat with her gin. He seemed to look beyond her, seeking a boiler in distress, so she blocked the hallway whilst the plumber took a moment to gag appreciatively on her perfume.

Careful to keep it subtle, Janet placed her hands behind her head to prove her friendly intentions and to showcase her naked armpits, hoping that he liked it natural. Sensing a connection, she swirled and ground her hips as though working a hula hoop in slow-mo whilst staring silently into the man’s grey eyes. She probably mouthed the lyrics to the Whitney Houston ballad that was kicking the shit out of the speakers in the front room, and pouted with all her power.

After some routine lip licking she danced in close, nose to nose. “Men in uniform always get me hot. Do you know what I mean by hot, Gary?”

“The name’s Jerry love.”

“Don’t I know it, and I’ve got a fever and it’s time for you to give me some treatment.” Janet was now too wild for further small talk, and felt for a bicep under Jerry’s checked shirt. When he recoiled she sucked back her ripe breath, fighting the urge to go immediately for the groin.

“You’re a bit fresh for an old girl ain’t yer?” blabbed Jerry, forgetting his manners, suggesting that he thought this was all a big joke. “A naughty lady like you could get a feller in a shitload of bother. And you do not want to mess me about girl.”

Janet decided that Jerry was just being cheeky. His eyes were slits, and definitely fixed on her panties that were visible behind the open curtain of her dress. That was a start and Janet lead Jerry by the hand into the kitchen. On arrival she did not let go as he whistled (through his mouth) and exhaled (through his nostrils) and creased his brow and wiped his chin (with his free hand) as he faced the boiler. It was hanging off the wall, ticking like pistol fire; its surface corrugated and cratered after withstanding a sustained assault of hammers, heavy candlesticks, a steel dustbin, an old video player, fists and feet.

“Don’t reckon I’m gonna be able to save that one love,” admitted Jerry, checking his digital watch.

“Oh don’t tell me that Gary, oh heavens, say it ain’t so,” begged Janet, working up some tears.

“Sorry missus, but someone’s given that a fierce going over. I can take it away now, for scrap…”

“Oh no Gary, don’t leave, I’m scared. What if whoever did that comes back?” Her words were soft, if a tad slurred, although the sobbing that followed was a full blooded throat-shredder. She drew him close, her hands wandering, squeezing him, playing with the stubble on his crown, their cheeks together so he could feel her tears. After several minutes Jerry tried to push Janet off, but she positioned herself so his hands grasped her boobs.

“My goodness Gary, are you trying to take advantage of a lonely woman,” she blurted.

“I told you girl, you don’t want to mess me about.”

“God you’re strong Gary. So strong! Look at those pecs.” As she spoke Janet took his hands from her boobs and made him squeeze his own (slightly) smaller versions. This marked a turning point. Jerry put his hands on his hips and smiled like a slow child who had finally understood the lesson.

Satisfied that she had his attention, Janet lifted her skirt high and let it fall like a flamenco dancer. She raised her hands, dancing softly, tossing her hair, singing The Greatest Love of All (”I never found anyone to fulfill my needs, a lonely place to be, So I learned to depend on me”) and twirled, but not before freeing her heavy boobs from their cups, so Gary could gaze upon her naked flesh. He watched in awe. Other than cracking his knuckles he was motionless. Janet turned her back on him, giggling. Then she bent double, dress over hips, and drew a finger across her gusset with a beckoning crook. Jerry spluttered, and Janet examined him (upside down), bordered by her thighs. He reached into his dungarees either to make room for a fat cock, or to retrieve an inhaler to treat an onslaught of whooping cough.

Although Janet’s finger clearly said, “Come hither,” she was worried that her intentions were still unclear. She contemplated dropping to her knees and going for the plumber’s loin there and then, but Jerry’s giant hands eventually reached round her belly. His fingers clasped, to help him grind her rump purposefully. Janet was not ashamed when the rhythmic pressure forced out a long whistle of gas from her bum; the accompanying noise was reduced to a buffeting sensation by the merciful stereo and the cat litter tray masked the smell.

By mutual consent they soon made for the bedroom. Some candles had burned out, but there was still enough fire to create a romantic glow. She almost collapsed when she noticed that she had forgotten to hide the brimming ashtray, and that the dope and empty pill bottles were still by the bed. Luckily, 24 hours of heavy alcohol and painkiller abuse had not entirely poisoned her mind and (as a distraction) she crawled onto the bed, pulling her floral dress over her head in a seductive motion. She coated her fingers with body butter, tugged her culotte aside, and eased two fingers up her bum right to the fist. In out, in out, shake it all about. She grunted, more baboon than babe. This performance continued for many minutes, and as Janet became aware of the rain attacking the rattling window and the biting cold in her unheated room, and as she had all but given up hope, Jerry began setting out his filthy intentions.

Delighted by this breakthrough, Janet sat on the edge of the bed, leaving a cappuccino stain as she unbuckled her prey. Before her, in cotton shirt and nylon Y-fronts, Jerry patted his well nourished gut, and flexed his stick thin legs.

She wanted to do this right, and spent longer than usual clawing his blue skin. There was blood under her fingernails by the time she started massaging his scrotum. She gnawed the lump in his pants, before tenderly lowering them.

His cock was partially aroused, albeit disappointingly bowed. Janet sighed; she knew she had saggy tits, but at least she had rouged her nipples to make up for it. She lifted each tit to Jerry’s gaping mouth, inviting him to suckle her, rubbing his lips with each fat teat. This was a seductress at the peak of her powers. She fell to her knees and Jerry’s erection was soon dripping with moisturiser and Janet’s secretions as she took the entire organ in her mouth. She tried to get a bollock in as well, but Jerry was still not confident enough for that. She used her thumb and forefinger to stroke his shaft, reassured that even dirty penetration would hardly hurt her. To wipe the ominous frown from Jerry’s face she tried again to force a finger up his anus, but the hairy arse-mesh proved impenetrable.

After suckling, nipping and hard teasing (until she almost had lockjaw) Janet leant back and parted her complicated lips putting on a hell of a display, which included jilling herself off. She threw plenty of body butter at Jerry to keep him interested before ordering him to slip a glass dildo into an opening of his choosing.

At long last Jerry took control, ignoring her slurred commands. He crawled on top and, after some near misses, buried his cock into her glistening fanny. He almost crushed her as he adjusted his grip round her throat. His violent pounding made her fart three or four times, but neither cared. Jerry’s big head was redder now, as sweat ran over engorged veins. His grin revealed gnashing teeth. He practically head butted the seductress with each thrust. He squealed like a girl and the room grew dark.

Janet started thrashing and tried to summon a defensive scream which only tightened Jerry’s grip, his cock pumping harder. She gurgled and strained for air as Jerry’s fist covered her nose, forcing her head into the pillow. By the time she started bucking, fighting him off, she found herself wondering when her daughter would be home from school. As her strength diminished, her brain started screaming. Strangely, she remembered her first kiss, her graduation, the smell of her daughter’s skin and laughing at the funfair. She was floating; ecstatic.

She concluded that the candles must have all burned out before her sight faded to black.

As an undergraduate I studied Jurisprudence. The word derives from the Latin term juris prudentia and literally means the “study, knowledge or science of law.”

In The Concept of Law, Herbert Hart (a British philosopher) considered the concept of social, or habitual, obedience. This got me thinking. There are many situations where collectively we behave in a way that is potentially detrimental to us, and that viewed objectively (such as by a Martian) can appear irrational. Please hold these thoughts as you read my short story and consider the extent to which we all regularly behave in a ludicrous way, driven by some notion of obedience.

I stopped at the lights early one moody morning. An empty bus meandered round the bend as I pushed the button and waited for the green man to tell me when it was safe to cross. Whilst waiting safely on the pavement I decided against reading my paper. I never read in the street, being all too familiar with the consequences and, anyway, I find that it is good to have something to look forward to on the long train journey to work. Not that the train is necessarily the proper environment for reading either. I learnt long ago that standing up for forty five minutes whilst being elbowed and having one’s hair disturbed by heavy breathing, with people everywhere, all seemingly out of breath, always out of shape, all standing up, closely confined, sneezing and sweating even on the coldest days, presents a major challenge even to a skilled reader. For these reasons I would never dream of reading a book on a train. For me, the state of meditation required in order to fully appreciate a book is unachievable in a public environment. I need silence to lock down certain senses to appreciate the intricacy of plot, each nuance of language. And did I mention time? Time is even more important than silence. I must at least perceive that there will be an abundance of undisturbed time following the act of reading, so as to completely savour the experience.

By now two new people, who I have never seen in the village before, were waiting with me, disturbing my thought processes. I nodded towards the road, the gesture intended to mean, “Good morning,” without being overly familiar. I avoided looking directly at either of them as the rain fell, or rather swirled, cheating gravity and frosting my cheeks. Then, as I continued waiting I heard the unmistakable din of someone’s headphones. Forgetting myself, as other strangers arrived to wait behind me, I clamped my hands over my ears, determined not to be deafened even if my conduct caused offence. But it was useless, the tinny racket was everywhere. We all did what we could to ignore it, but my will power is not what it was and I pressed my hands against my ears so hard that I almost crushed my own skull.

And now, on top of everything I had a headache as the rain fell harder, striking the pavement so ferociously that it soaked my ankles and seeped through my shoes. I cursed myself for forgetting my coat for the third day running and cursed the rain for ruining my attractive business shoes; it was really coming down now and I began to imagine my train leaving me behind, leaving me to explain my late arrival to the new supervisor who had taken an instant dislike to me. As I was closest to the road I checked the lights, but it was not yet safe and so I continued to wait.

A while later, as about a dozen of us waited together, a most unexpected thing happened. A man elected not to join us at the crossing light, which prompted many concerned eyebrows, and some tuts were just audible over tinny din and through my freezing hands as, in an act of personal recklessness, he crossed the road even though he was nowhere near the crossing point. His face was obscured by the darkness and a large brolly. Although he probably wore a suit under his overcoat it looked to me (judging by the way he stamped his feet and hunched his shoulders) as though he was handy with his fists.

My head was killing me. I could see my supervisor’s face, her superior demeanour; she would already be there, waiting to catch me out, to file the report with personnel. I might have been perspiring at these thoughts when I was nudged from behind. I was determined not to look round and concentrated on blocking out the constant noise. But it was hopeless. Something was coughing down the back of my neck, and my nostrils flared at the smell of sour beer. I was blocked to my left and to my right, and ahead was the road. The signal had yet to change. I was trapped. I had to stand and take it. By now my head was spinning, aching and raised to the sky as my glasses afforded my eyes scant protection from the needle rain.

The booze on the air was indeed powerful, but no match for what happened next. Suddenly, from God knows where, a plume of cigarette smoke circled me, making directly for my lungs. This was indeed a low point. I was rendered helpless, so much so that I thought very seriously about making a scene. I was close to blacking out, but no longer cared. And we all waited.

Eventually, over the coughs, tinny dins and thick smoke I heard the electronic beeping and opened my eyes. There it was, the green man signalling a safe passage across the road. I uncovered my ears and tried to smooth some of the water from my skirt before continuing on my way.

Here is the concluding part of Summery Judgement. Welcome to a twisted vision of the near future where the men ride horses  and motorists pack the cells.

“I was driving carefully, I know the rules, there was nothing I could do,” pleaded the driver pre-emptively.

At this a diminutive lady burst from the masses, fell to her knees and introduced herself as Bernadette. “I was the first on the scene,” she lied, as somewhere in the distance a screaming siren heralded a vehicle approaching at speed. “This so-called man has blood on his hands today officer. It was like he deliberately wanted to take a life such was his wild driving style. Rarely have I seen such disregard for human life.”

For the first time the sergeant seemed unconvinced and, realising this, Bernadette stood to her full height taking the sergeant by the hand. The crowd fell silent as she lead him to the back of the car. I followed as best I could so that I would be on hand in case anybody became interested in establishing the truth.

Over the heads that bobbed and snarled an ambulance could now be seen. It was approaching at moderate speed, flanked by an unofficial escort of scooters; the little Vespas and Piaggios were racing the ambulance down the empty avenue, weaving this way and that, ignoring traffic lights with a vengeance. In addition, one or two young men on horseback were keeping pace admirably, their fine galloping stallions more than a match for the scooters.

In the meantime Bernadette had removed her enormous black hat and was pointing at the rear of the car, staring at the sergeant. He did not immediately understand. Bernadette shook with frustration, as though willing him to notice the exhaust pipes. She composed herself, and then in a voice designed to reach even those at the back said, “Officer, dear sir, see…it runs on petrol…”

The pressure was immense as the onlookers fought to witness this latest twist.

By now Bernadette was once more on her knees crying into her hands. “What about the children!” she moaned, “The little baby children. Oh sweet baby Jesus, Mary and Joseph. For the love of all that is good, for the sake of humanity protect us, protect us all from this evil.”

The sergeant, clearly moved (as was the crowd which now stood silent) signalled for the paramedic who had arrived moments earlier. The crowd, swollen by dozens of scooter riders and horsemen, looked on as the sergeant ordered the paramedic to apply oxygen to Bernadette.

Gradually, poor Bernadette’s suffering was eased. She clasped the oxygen mask tightly to her face, still pleading for the sake of the children. Once she was in a satisfactory condition, the sergeant knelt beside her. In order to reassure her that he understood, he placed his cheek against hers. People in the crowd embraced, assuming that the sergeant had finally grasped the implications of what had occurred today; that he understood the full weight of the driver’s crime.

After some moments the sergeant removed the mask so he could hold Bernadette’s face. Then he nodded, to say, “I understand your pain, I feel it too. For all that is good, for the good of our children, and for the good of their children’s children, for the good of all the children of the world, I will do the right thing. I will right this wrong.”

Somewhere above a bird sang, and the sergeant’s face darkened. “Now my dear Bernadette, if you will excuse me, this I must to do personally,” he said, looking across at the girl sobbing in Bessie’s protective grip.

With his colleague at his elbow the sergeant surged towards the front of the car where the driver still stood, trembling. At his signal, the younger officer clamped the driver in his heavy handcuffs. Then, in accordance with standard practice he drew his knife and lead the driver to his horse where he shackled him to the thick leather strapping across its rear haunches.

Avoiding the dung, that now seemed to be everywhere, the sergeant approached the driver with a solemn, even morbid, look in his eyes. “I do this for the sake of humanity, so that we might all have a world to share, to marvel at, for all eternity. You will be taken to the cells where your punishment will be administered. And I warn you to expect no mercy.”

This proclamation was despatched in a way that was almost boastful. And the crowd loved it. The thought of the driver’s suffering sated their bloodlust because, however brutal, there had to be justice.

Each officer mounted his horse and, as the people parted to let them through, the driver, who had long since abandoned his earlier protests of innocence, ran behind to avoid being dragged by his chains.

By now the sun was a little lower in the bright blue sky. Some people shuffled off, ready to recount all they had witnessed to their families and friends. I noticed the victim stir, pushing the paramedic away. He shook and rubbed his head and then stood up on the spot where he had passed out some time earlier. Nancy had broken loose in the ensuing celebration and was nowhere to be seen. In the circumstances I decided against offering any further argument. As I made my way back to my office I refused to watch as what remained of the crowd, lead by the tall gentleman, started dismantling the abandoned car.

What follows is the first part of a thought provoking short story. We live in a crazy world, manipulated by self serving politics and mass media aimed at people with a fifteen second attention span. Think about how quickly we fall for the latest fad, or accept the latest regime based on minimal, or carefully selected, evidence. Summery Judgement looks into the near future where the evolution of current thinking has had an unexpected impact on our lifestyles and morality.

Sunshine soothed the city and I almost smiled as I gazed through my office window to the river beyond. A broad avenue, bordered by attractive plane trees, was quietly baking several stories below. Although until recently this grand thoroughfare had teemed purposefully, now it was deserted except for the occasional clatter of hooves.

Even though it was Sunday, and even though my children were not yet old enough to understand, I was now a little less at odds with the stricter energy rationing that had forced my working practices to change. I had explained this in detail to my dear wife on many occasions, but she found adapting to the currently fashionable political ideas almost impossible. Naturally, I did not enjoy having to work seven days each week to accommodate the latest rules. However, I knew that in time some new entity would rise to prominence and declare those rules as false; the only true source of concern, therefore, was how long that wait would be and whether, when change inevitably arrived, the new rules would be even harsher. In the meantime, on a practical level, my problem was that, perhaps more than most, an architect needs light. By this I mean a steady clear illumination such as on a day like today, rather than the unreliable flicker of a candle. Like many I had experimented in the early days, hoping to preserve my old routines and work outside the hours of daylight; but even a room filled with candles had proven to be unsuitable for my professional requirements. In fact, notwithstanding the growing body of expert opinion to the contrary, a flame’s constant motion always left me feeling nauseous and ill-tempered.

As I took a moment to reflect on the fact that my boys now stayed in bed, rather than wave me off with a kiss each morning, I was distracted by the sound of a car. I immediately hopped from my seat, throwing open the great sash window for a better view. After a minute or two I spotted it. A black car, carrying only the driver, was crawling along the smooth tarmac. Its pace was so slow that I had time to make a fresh glass of water to sip and by the time I returned to the window the car was virtually beneath me; so close in fact that I could almost make out the driver’s moustache.

I glanced away from the car only because I heard some shouting. On the pavement below, a male and female seemed to be wrestling each other. The man was dressed in the undyed fabrics that were now the standard attire of people of modest status. From  my vantage point the female appeared to be much younger, at least judging by her infantile physique. She referred to herself as Nancy and was making her point most forcefully, bringing herself close to tears. Some coins flew from the man’s hand and Nancy (who he now addressed in crude animalistic terms) fell to her knees to collect them as though claiming a debt. Once free of her grip the man almost collapsed in a heap and staggered in a circle kicking his feet and waving his fists and shouting in a foreign language that might have been German. Perhaps embarrassed by the fuss, and having scooped up all the cash, Nancy clambered to her feet. As she tried to deposit the money into her very tight trousers the man rushed at her. Displaying good reflexes Nancy neatly side stepped her attacker and, as he staggered past, she shoved him in the back thereby hurling him across the road.

I leant out of the window as far as I dared but the point of impact was hidden by the branches of a tree. Nancy’s screams and the yelping brakes left me fearing the worst and instinct took hold of me. I buttoned my shirt and ran from my office in such a hurry that I forgot to lock it. By the time I arrived on the pavement both man and car lay motionless in the road. A crowd had already gathered. At its centre Nancy appeared distraught, pushing the people away and hissing for all she was worth.

“She’s in shock! Look how she fights us. Come now dear, let us comfort you,” said a tall gentlemen who seemed to be the leader. He tried again to put his arms round Nancy, but she misinterpreted this kindness and clawed at this face.

“Have you sent the boy?” shouted someone from the road. “We need to get the police here now, I don’t know how long I can restrain him!”

I skirted the crowd and ran into the road to help the injured man. In front of me was the driver with his head forced against the bonnet of his car and his arm pulled high up his back by a man called Simon. Some feet away from the car the injured man lay in a pile of bones and rags. He was clearly still breathing, but the crowd had chosen not to touch him, presumably for fear of worsening the damage.

Simon’s grip must have been strong because the driver began crying. “I couldn’t avoid him, he came from nowhere! I wasn’t going fast, he came from nowhere!”

“Not going fast! It was like you had murder on your mind,” shrieked a new voice as Simon again called for the boy to bring the police. “I saw the whole thing and as the Lord is my witness you sir were going well over twenty.”

The crowd roared with horror.

“For the love of God what were you thinking!”

“Over twenty!”

“Murderer!”

Just as I was about to make myself heard over the din Nancy made a run for it.

“Grab her, she’s grief stricken. For her own sake, she needs help, the poor woman. The police will comfort her, give her a hot meal,” declared the tall gentleman.

Three obliging men gave chase and soon returned with Nancy who was now red faced and crying uncontrollably. They left her in the care of a burly woman called Bessie who tried hard to quieten her. In the meantime the three men stood guard in case Nancy tried to flee again.

After almost an hour the crowd, which was now over forty strong (as word had got out), grew impatient. The rowdy debate as to how the driver should be punished became louder and some fists flew amongst those on the fringes. Although, surprisingly, they had the strongest and most extreme opinions about the driver’s fate, they were also complaining bitterly that they were denied a better position from which to observe, or influence, the developments. In the circumstances I doubt that I was the only one to feel relieved when, at long last, there was a shout from one of the lookouts followed by a great cheer as two policemen cantered down the broad roadway.

“The boy got through, the boy did it!” they all sang and clapped. Simon was so relieved that he loosened his grip allowing the driver to stand upright and rub the swelling around his left eye.

The tall gentleman strode into the road and flagged the policemen down. The oldest officer, who held the rank of sergeant, reigned in his panting mare and jumped off.

“Officer, there he is, by the car. My friend has detained him pending your arrival.”

“What is all this?” asked the sergeant, pushing people off him because he needed room to pull on his high visibility jacket. “What’s occurring?”

“That man has driven his mechanical transportation at such a speed as to make it nothing short of a weapon. No less dangerous sir than the bullets in your rifle or the knife in your sheath.”

“He was doing more that twenty, we witnessed it, we saw it first hand!”

“More that twenty?” queried the officer, now struck by the gravity of the crime. He signalled to his colleague, who dismounted his horse and (after successfully donning his high visibility jacket) ran towards the driver brandishing his cuffs.

At this moment I fought through the throng so that I was close enough to make myself heard. “Sergeant, I must speak with you. My name is Mr Verity and I work in that office,” I began, pointing to my window that was still open. “I saw the entire incident. I can tell you this much, that car was going no more than ten. At the most! That woman,” I said, now pointing at the wretch in Bessie’s loving arms, “pushed the victim into the road. The driver had no chance.”

“A victim you say? What is all this?” asked the sergeant who was being overpowered by the weight of people closing in to listen.

“There sir,” I shouted, forcing myself through with an enormous shove, using my shoulder and arms to clear a path.

“Ah, I see…has someone called for an ambulance?” asked the sergeant, wiping his sweaty brow with his silk riding glove.”

“We sent the boy for the ambulance as soon as he found you. I hear they are on their way.”

“They’re held up in the city centre,” called one of the lookouts, “by the buses. Apparently the buses have all stopped and nothing can get through.”

“So be it,” said the sergeant as we both bent down to inspect the victim.

The sergeant and I immediately recoiled in unison at the powerful scent of alcohol seeping from the injured man who, by this time, had started making a terrible moaning sound.

“What is all this?” asked the tall gentleman peevishly. “The driver’s over there. Come sir, let’s bring this to an end. And please make sure you tend to the victim’s daughter, she’s in a terrible condition being comforted by Bessie.”

“But she threw him into the road, I saw it,” said I, fighting off the arms that gripped and tugged.

“Liar! He’s a liar!” boomed the crowd. “Why does he accuse a poor girl, she can’t be much more than fifteen, look at how she grieves…”

I was taken aback by the stern look that the sergeant gave me, as though I was trampling on the feelings of a child. Without another word he stormed towards the driver and waved his colleague aside with a look of menace, and full authority to severely punish the driver on the spot.