Winner 2013 'START' Flash Fiction - Tony Oswick
Judge's report http://erewashwriterscompetition.weebly.com/winners-2013.html
http://lies-ink.blogspot.co.uk/ Dan Purdue, Judge
Unfortunately, this Weebly website is unable to maintain original format
THE CASTLE by Tony Oswick
The man stands on the ramparts of the castle and raises his eyes to the flag of St David. The flag flutters in the breeze and lights a beacon of pride within his heart. This is the reason for his being.
In the distance, thin threads of cotton clouds skirt over the mountains, their bare brown crowns tonsured by the dark woodland of the forest below. Stretched before him lie green and yellow fields, some swollen with soon-to-be-harvested crops, others the home of contented sheep. The sun shines peace over the rural scene and the man marvels at the beauty of his homeland.
He stands in awe. “This is indeed the land of my fathers.”
But, as he contemplates such patriotic thoughts, a shudder runs down his spine. Experience tells him the tranquillity cannot, will not, last. Overhead, the harsh calls of the crows which nest in the tall oak within the confines of the castle break the silence. Is their screeching a premonition?
Not a single human being stains the landscape. But the man knows that before noon - when the sun has risen five degrees more in its upward arc - the field before the castle will throng with the noises of rampaging hordes intent on breaching the defences of the castle. He hears in his mind the insistent and demanding sound he has often heard before.
“Die! Die! Die!”
The drawbridge spans the moat, its water unruffled and unflustered, but he feels confidence in the unseen heavy gates below. They are, and always have been, a steadfast sentry, strong and sturdy, barred and bolted to withstand all invaders. Whilst the gates stand firm, no man will occupy the castle.
His mind drifts to battles past and he recalls the rebel armies, a seething mass of disorganised humanity, ready to sacrifice themselves in the name of their cause. In those peaceful fields beyond the castle lie the remains of human bodies, the soil streaked and layered with the blood of courageous Welshmen.
Annihilation and butchery adorn the landscape yet, within those fortified walls, exists evidence of slaughter and torture, unspeakable deeds perpetrated in the name of his people.
His mouth is dry. His palms are sweating. When the time comes, will he remember all he has learned over the years? He is just an ordinary man but soon he will be called upon to do his duty.
His reverie is broken by an echoing footfall on the stone steps leading to the upper ramparts. His heart beats faster to the rhythm of the footsteps. Is this the call? Is this his time?
“Dai! Dai! Dai!”
A young woman in a white blouse and dark blue skirt approaches him.
"We’ve been looking for you everywhere. The castle opens in thirty minutes. You’re down for the first tour.”
The man sighs. It’s the start of the school holidays. It’s going to be a busy summer.
Judge's report http://erewashwriterscompetition.weebly.com/winners-2013.html
http://lies-ink.blogspot.co.uk/ Dan Purdue, Judge
Unfortunately, this Weebly website is unable to maintain original format
THE CASTLE by Tony Oswick
The man stands on the ramparts of the castle and raises his eyes to the flag of St David. The flag flutters in the breeze and lights a beacon of pride within his heart. This is the reason for his being.
In the distance, thin threads of cotton clouds skirt over the mountains, their bare brown crowns tonsured by the dark woodland of the forest below. Stretched before him lie green and yellow fields, some swollen with soon-to-be-harvested crops, others the home of contented sheep. The sun shines peace over the rural scene and the man marvels at the beauty of his homeland.
He stands in awe. “This is indeed the land of my fathers.”
But, as he contemplates such patriotic thoughts, a shudder runs down his spine. Experience tells him the tranquillity cannot, will not, last. Overhead, the harsh calls of the crows which nest in the tall oak within the confines of the castle break the silence. Is their screeching a premonition?
Not a single human being stains the landscape. But the man knows that before noon - when the sun has risen five degrees more in its upward arc - the field before the castle will throng with the noises of rampaging hordes intent on breaching the defences of the castle. He hears in his mind the insistent and demanding sound he has often heard before.
“Die! Die! Die!”
The drawbridge spans the moat, its water unruffled and unflustered, but he feels confidence in the unseen heavy gates below. They are, and always have been, a steadfast sentry, strong and sturdy, barred and bolted to withstand all invaders. Whilst the gates stand firm, no man will occupy the castle.
His mind drifts to battles past and he recalls the rebel armies, a seething mass of disorganised humanity, ready to sacrifice themselves in the name of their cause. In those peaceful fields beyond the castle lie the remains of human bodies, the soil streaked and layered with the blood of courageous Welshmen.
Annihilation and butchery adorn the landscape yet, within those fortified walls, exists evidence of slaughter and torture, unspeakable deeds perpetrated in the name of his people.
His mouth is dry. His palms are sweating. When the time comes, will he remember all he has learned over the years? He is just an ordinary man but soon he will be called upon to do his duty.
His reverie is broken by an echoing footfall on the stone steps leading to the upper ramparts. His heart beats faster to the rhythm of the footsteps. Is this the call? Is this his time?
“Dai! Dai! Dai!”
A young woman in a white blouse and dark blue skirt approaches him.
"We’ve been looking for you everywhere. The castle opens in thirty minutes. You’re down for the first tour.”
The man sighs. It’s the start of the school holidays. It’s going to be a busy summer.
