Site of the writer Andrew Wood

Flash Fiction #9

This is another flash – I seem to be getting more regular again with these things hehe.

Magical Might

Fiery death rains down upon the soul. One figure stands alone against many tainted beings. The sword in his holy grip tightens, his eyes flare, his soul ignites. A sea of rage ebbs within. His sword swings; a wide arc it travels. Blood spurts, splatters and sprays with careless precision. The stains of a life now lost are shrugged off… forgotten.

Storm clouds loom, ready to soak the land with a torrential emotion. The skies creak and split open slowly. Thor’s fury splinters the air in two and strikes the earth without resistance. Keep on going… must not relent.

A fire brews from within. The heated essence whips from one side to the other. The battlefield is laden with rag dolls – once were they animated. Blades strewn in the mud and blood. He stands alone regardless. He soldiers on with might. He vanquishes without hesitation.

Where does it all come from? Who is he? What is he? What is he fighting for? Why is he compelled to murder these strangers… this army? Does he know why? Does anyone?

Feelings do not come into it. Death is everything. Life is conditional. He fights for the unknown. His sword coloured with deathly rust – dripping rhythmically to the floor. Tears of anguish part the dirt. Shaking limbs vibrate the ground. Piercing eyes overlook the horde of corpses. The scythe looms in a wide swipe and a bony hand raises the condemned souls from their shackles.

His glowing crimson eyes glance at the solitary warrior – a guardian. His jaw moves in a motion of thanks. The warrior plunges his sword into the ground. This was all for a perverse lust. How could he carry on? How could he justify all of this? How?

He could not…


Comments on: "Flash Fiction #9" (2)

  1. Wonderfully descriptive, Andy. Love all the metaphors for death coloured with ‘red.’


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