This is my writing blog, where I will be shamelessly posting my work. Poems, short stories, flash fiction, extracts from novels...they'll all be here. And if you don't like any of that, just play with the tiger.

Thursday, 8 November 2007

The sounds of violence

It’s almost like a symphony. Nearest, and most irritating, is the slow, heavy drip as the water that seeps through the walls pools and then plops into the floor-sized puddle below. It never stops; never hesitates or misses a beat. Then there are the sudden staccato flashes of shells landing somewhere near; you constantly expect them – your nerves are wired for them – but every time one goes off your heart explodes into a flurry of panic-beats. Hodges provides the melody. In his dreams, he wails constantly, high-pitched, like some tortured soprano; his cries for his mother swoop and whirl through the foul dankness of the air. Then, after a while, you notice anew the bass line, and wonder how it could ever have stopped being at the forefront of your mind. Incessant, determined, making the soles of your feet tingle – that’s the heavy artillery, and you know it’ll still be rumbling on long after you’ve gone to join the heavenly choir. This is my music, now.

I wake, suddenly, knowing something is wrong. I strain my ears against the darkness, and realise. Half the wall has been blown in, and Hodges – well. His singing days are over.


Telmis said...

Lest we forget .... very appropriate for tomorrow ... nicely written, as if you had been there Viki.

I was invited to march in London this year, but alas, I am not fit enough, for the six hours it takes. There are very few Security posts, and all have to pass through them. It takes hours; I shall watch it on TV though.

Viki Lane said...

Thanks, John.

It's a shame you can't go to London; pity there aren't more security posts (and perhaps a bigger pity that such posts are necessary).

With thanks to Graeme