The Light Should Win

Flash Fiction piece

Here’s a flash fiction piece I started from a prompt and then expanded a bit.

Arthur leant against the sandstone wall outside the church. He’d thrown down his scythe and run up the hill as soon as he heard the church bells ring out. He clutched his chest and drew in three shallow breaths. The humid air was thick and sank down into his heaving lungs.

Mary peered over the wall. Her face was as pale as finely ground flour, and her blonde hair hung in strands poking out from under her white cap. ‘Quick, Arthur, they’re coming again!’

Arthur pushed off the wall, tearing his waistcoat that had caught on a nail. He stumbled to the wooden gate under the porch roof to the churchyard.

Mary beckoned him from the church entrance; one door was already closed. ‘Hurry!’ She put her hand over her mouth.

Arthur felt a cool breeze come up the hill and surround his neck. He shivered as his sweat cooled and his shirt stuck to his skin. He dared not turn around: he knew they were close from Mary’s expression. He gasped and shuddered as he sucked in the cold air, knowing not what it might contain.

The gate latch was stiff, and it took three attempts to open it. Arthur staggered along the stone path. He blinked and wiped his eyes, but he couldn’t see Mary now. He looked left and right at the nearest gravestones—their inscriptions fading as the darkness rolled over them like fog on a river. Arthur reached into his waistcoat pocket and took out his flint and stone. He tugged at his frayed shirt hem and tore a strip of linen away. He knelt to strike the flint.

‘Arthur!’ Mary’s distant voice reached him, but Arthur couldn’t tell from which direction.

Strike, strike, strike, spark! Arthur cupped his hands around the cloth and gently blew. The cloth turned red, and flames flickered at the edge. Arthur lifted the strip by the other edge.

‘Stay back!’

Arthur heard his words echo from the stone paving and then nothing. The silence wasn’t just the absence of noise—it was the opposite of noise, as if the silence was a living entity, married to the blackness.

He called out to Mary, but the word was swallowed by the dark before it left his throat. Arthur gasped again before putting his hand over his mouth, suddenly afraid of inhaling the darkness. He dropped the useless cloth, its flame long gone.

Am I dead? Is this Hell?

Arthur recalled his sins and transgressions over the last week and then thought of his good deeds. Surely I haven’t been that bad, Lord?

He felt something cold on his nose, then his eyes and his mouth. He hairs on his neck rose and then on his forearms. Defenceless, he regretted leaving his scythe in the field. He turned one way, then the other, his arms outstretched, trying to push the darkness away. He shivered and felt the urge to curl up on the floor.

No. Not now.

Arthur took a step into the unknown and felt ice crunch under his feet. The paving stones were slippery underneath, but they were there. This wasn’t Limbo. He took another step. The darkness pushed back, and Arthur leant into it, as if pushing his haywain up the slope on a hot August afternoon.

The thought of sunshine and warmth seemed distant, but encouraged him. ‘Mary,’ he shouted again. This time, the word came out. Arthur thought he could see shapes now in the darkness: tall, thin figures with arms hanging down like branches from a willow.

‘Mary!’

The figures swayed, and one leaned backwards. Arthur pushed forward and sang his favourite ditty,

‘Oh, the girls of Thurlestone

Aren’t so pretty,

and the girls of Kingston

Like to nag,

But the girls from Craddock

Have big titties,

and best of all,

they love to…’

The figures moved back.

‘Arthur…’ the voice was faint.

Arthur looked down and could see his feet. He sang again and saw the stone path leading to the church. He pushed forward. ‘Mary!’

‘I’m here, love.’

Arthur swung his arms wildly, trying to push the intangible darkness away. The figures faded and diminished until nothing was left but the ice on the path and frost on Arthur’s beard.

Mary ran towards him, her face red from crying. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’

Arthur picked her up and squeezed her ample waist. She smelled of apples and baked bread; she smelled of life.

‘Where did they go?’ Arthur said.

‘They don’t like joy.’ Mary wiped some frost off Arthur’s beard. ‘They feed on fear and despair.’

‘I told you the light should win, my love.’ Arthur patted his pocket with the flint and stone.

Mary lifted the hem of Arthur’s shirt. ‘Oh, look. You’ve torn your waistcoat and shirt. I’ll have to darn them again.’

I’ve been swamped by work since my holiday and have had little mental space for editing my novel. Strangely, free writing from prompts seems to work a different part of my (limited) brain.

I’m on top of things now and need to get back into the flow of editing before breakfast. Thanks for reading.