Saturday, 26 June 2010
A Very Short Story What I Just Wrote
NOTE: A first draft. Trying to come up with something of 500 words or so for a competition. Feedback welcome. Especially the MBV/JaMC variety.
My Pocket Bible Is On Fire
Many are the ways in which this tale will be written. I want to recall it perfectly, write it purely as I see it from the distance of the sole hour that has passed since the occurrence. For, despite the warnings, already I imagine the interpretations taking place, the calculated Chinese whisper passing from powerful ears to weak ones.
At three minutes past noon today I went to a cash machine a few yards from my office. In error I asked for a receipt. There was a queue so I waited till it came lest others discover the extent of my poverty.
I bought a cheese and onion roll from a nearby baker’s shop.
Opposite the baker’s there is a pub that sells cheap beer all day and cheap beer all night. Outside there were the usual crowd of refugees from the world of work. There’s a bench a few yards up from the pub where I like to sit with my lunch if the weather’s not too bad. I took a seat and opened up the paper bag from the baker’s. A pigeon heard the tiny crackle of bag and landed close to my feet.
The pigeon looked at me. I thought about shooing him.
And then it happens.
I knew it wasn’t just happening to me because of all the crashing cars around me, the dropped beers and stumbling women, the way that people clutched their heads to listen closer to the voice, to protect themselves from the sudden madness.
A voice, a voice like none heard yet in the sane world, spoke in all the heads on Earth.
I am the Creator.
I made you and I can unmake you. Abandon your churches, mosques and temples. Destroy your banks. Eden exists. It is all around you. Your beliefs are confirmed but do not become complacent for your rituals disappoint me. Put down your weapons and feed each other. Abandon your wealth as you would your worries for the two are one. The next time I speak will be the last.
I heard the church on the hill at the top of the town smash, we saw the smoke rise from here and turned as one by one, churches and banks fell into dust. I felt the coins in my pocket become hot and burn through the lining, falling to the ground and melting into nothingness.
As I speak, the televisions are beginning to crackle back into life silent. I can hear sirens and gunfire. The sky has emptied of clouds and the streets are filled with wondrous, upturned heads. A man on the radio is crying. There is talk of rioting in Rome.
I sit and watch and wait for something to happen.
A pigeon nibbles at the dropped roll by my feet.