Friday Fiction: The Warzone

For this weeks Friday Fiction I got a start from Captivating Kitten. Her words are in purple. I rather bleakly finished it.


The flicker of the lamp was starting to get irritating.  Crumpling up yet another piece of paper he stood up from the desk and threw it into the pile by the window.  It’s been ten days since he’d left the house, or at least that’s what the red crosses on the calendar said.

The crosses to him represented failure rather than passing of the time. A failure to escape and to write anything, to tell the world of his story. Not that the story of Malcolm Murphy would be of interest to anyone ordinarily but the world in which he now lived was anything but ordinary.
People said it was a blessing to be born just after the third war. No more bomb blasts and enough peace treaties to ensure peace for another one hundred years so the media said. What they never mentioned was fifty years of struggle, black outs and hunger, whilst the leaders of all four sides involved in the conflict lived in complete comfort.

A younger Malcolm had fought, against the power, but the “peace treaties” made it impossible for anyone to fight the system for too long and live. Aged 25 Malcolm grew tired of watching his friends die or disappear, so he decided to keep his head down and live best he could for himself. It was hard but at his lowest ebb Malcolm met Grace. Grace made Malcolm forget the struggle and he felt a sense of freedom whenever he was with her. Amongst the riots and the broken glass the two of them forged a love that was so strong that Malcolm looked forward to a day where all people could all experience the joy he felt there and then with Grace.

Grace would have helped him write.

With Grace still around there would be no need to write. But she was gone. It has only been a month. They took her away from him early before sun-rise, they had entered their apartment, without word of warning and stolen Grace, his wife of nearly 25 years. Malcolm had heard of this happening to other people, but not to him, no never. Not now. They couldn’t have taken Grace because of what he did all those years ago. Could they?

For the first few weeks Malcolm searched for Grace, but the curfew and misinformation made his search dangerous. People he had classed as friends even denied that Grace ever existed, so not as to get themselves “into trouble.” Malcolm cared not for the outside world and the struggle. He felt just as he had before he met Grace. Browbeaten and alone he reached for more paper. The world must know, he thought.

The wail of sirens broke through the nights stillness and Malcolm could see the flashing lights and the flames burning high in the streets below through his smeared window. Firecrackers went off as Police and the militant few hardy souls clashed. Malcolm began to write about the end of his life in the warzone. As the noose he’d prepared days before was illuminated by the fiery skies.
Power lines south of Pfungstadt in fiery sky

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