written by David Anglin

Daily Creative Writing Practice - Lightning Struck In Union To The Flash Of His Locks [Short Story]

Daily Creative Writing Practice - Lightning Struck In Union To The Flash Of His Locks [Short Story]

My practice of bringing depth to simple sentences...

He pulled the small lever that sent the drill into reverse and allowed him to smoothly pull the drill bit from out the centuries-old wall. While the noise of the drill was blocked by an ever rising wind, that cried with growing fury, threatening to become a storm like none witnessed before on the lands of the United Kingdom. The sixteen inches of drill bit returned to him as mist swirled all around him, concealing him in its thick vapor.
A perfect storm, brewed for a night like this. He peered into the darkness of the new hole formed by the drill bit, roughly two inches in diameter. He placed into the hole a white cloth that dripped from a toxic cocktail, making sure to push it all the way through to the other side, as he poured more of the flammable cocktail onto the cloth and into the hole. Filling it until there was a puddle of clear liquid and splashing the rest of it onto intricately designed walls, that in times past housed an ambition that forced on to the world ideologies that had floods of bloodparting the deceased in a similar magnitude to how Moses in his might was able to separate the red sea from the seabed.
He lit the cloth with a single flame. The simple action created a massive action, the universal concept of 80/20 worked in motion. The building whose aura had spread overseas for centuries untouched now had something of a thorn in its side. A thorn spawned from a burning ambition, that with the help of a perfect storm, whipped up winds that spread the flames. Heat quickly rose in intensity. The house of parliament burned and the rules of man were now rocked by a singular entity.

He stood tall. Eyes closed as he awaited the coming storm, physically represented as screams of fury by men who'd had the roots of their core principles rocked by a now foreign hand.
Within minutes the storm came as screams that lit the sky a flashing blue and projected towards him violently were words of, "get down now!" He stood still, unmoving, an outright refusal.
More warnings were screamed at him, he moved to the side in defiance. Rapid bullets hurtled towards him with aims of cutting him down to size. The universe denied the motion of man. Allowing him to live longer. To complete his task. A task that weighed heavy on his shoulders. A task which he'd mediated on in complete darkness, the wooded areas of Hackney marshes being the grounds for obtaining his enlightenment and allowing him to find his path...

He had been unsure if he was truly a righteous representative for the mission. In answer, his mind's eye had brought up visions of his younger brother in his soldiers uniform as he set for his first tour of Afghanistan. Leaving behind a crying new wife and a curious bright baby.
At the time he'd warned his brother about being a black man and working for Babylon as all they'd do was to chew him up and spit him out.
His brother had ignored his concerns, saying he'd be fine. That he's a born warrior and that he'd always be the last man standing.
4 years later his brother had returned with medals of honor, in respects to his bravery on the battlefield. But the man that had returned was not the same one who had left. His eyes had been tainted by war. He brought the brutality of war back home with him. His wife that had cried for his safe return, now cried for her own safety at his hands.
The horrors of war visited him at night and so his hands found the neck of his wife in a deathly hug, to wanted comfort.
He'd argued with his brother that he's not the same man that left, that the guy he knew was hidden far below an ever cracking psyche. His brother responded, whipping his clenched fist into his cheek. The two brothers close from birth, now fought as if they both were not born from the same loving womb.
He saw his brother a year later. An absolute mess living the hard life of the real under classed. His face marked by abscess. His fingernails long and dirty from months of not washing. A hero of the land, now a servant to the rats. His burning ambition of glory for the queen led him to a path that found crack as his new majesty and heroin as his new King.

Long since abandoned by his long-suffering wife who was unable to bring him from the dark cloud of darker wartime memories. His medals of honor pawned for three wraps of crack. The government who he'd fought tooth and nail for in protecting their visions across oversees land, became curiously forgetful as he descended down the path of Cain.
At the time he'd tried to help his younger brother, asking the government for help, but falling on deaf ears. Asking for some kind of direction of dealing with his brother a victim of their wars. He was signposted to another signpost. His brother passed away six months later, no trumpet ceremonies and no salutes. No background music of God save the queen. He died alone. Under the dirty under path of the dual carriageway section of Hackneys A12. His decomposed body was found by a dog walker. Who noticed the small gathering of crows and a screaming fox as they chewed upon the flesh of the past war hero. The flesh of his younger brother, who he'd promised his dying mother on death's bed that he'd forever protect.
He'd failed her. Just like how the government had failed him. Just like how the government had failed all of the former war vets who now found themselves homeless and fighting the addictions of man-made drugs. The government's versions of thanks. He heard them loud and clear.

The universe had answered his concerns, late night through his meditative soul-searching among the bushes of Hackneys marshes. The branch of a tree fell down meters next to him. He saw the broken birds nest and opened his eyes to the reality that the rotten core of the tree not only led to the demise of the tree but also for all the things that relied on it. A living ecosystem, everything is everything. Just like how the rotten core of society was now breaking down the trusted fabric of all those who had trusted the twisted ideologies of elected officials.
The falling of the branch had been the universe electing him as the new speaker of the land. He made a conscious decision to go further than anyone, as the new champion to the people of the land...

The mist swirled around him, making him even more of an elusive figure as the darkness of London's nighttime was now only broken by the flashing of blue sirens. He felt more confident in what he was doing, more confident in the idea. That the land needs a great change and that the great change will require great effort. He was the physical representation of that effort. He was that which is created when a society loses track of the importance of fellowship and happiness for all men. Of the importance of being in harmony and at one with nature.
He stared ahead fearlessly. Slowly unwrapping the cloth containing the nat and kingship of his crown. He shook the dreads of his hair from left to right, the night sky crackled in union as lightning sparked the heavens and rain poured down and went about its task of washing away the filth created by man...


The 4TY project is an idea I've developed from working with young offenders for close to 10 years, it's aims is in creating a safe environment for young people to pursue there passions while being mentored by creatives and entrepreneurs from different industries. If you'd be willing to support this cause and turn it into the big reality I envision for it, please click here to find out more details. Thanks for your support.

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Words and Art. Art and words. My stories will make you laugh, will make you cry. Provoke anger, cause distress. But most importantly my tales will get you thinking in hopes of bringing around real change...?

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