Flash Fiction

The lonely virgin stood atop the unweeded tower casting out battered screams over the flowering crowds. The royal duke and the royal duchess faced each other over broken ground. The duke unfit for purpose. The duchess long past her prime. But still they led the dance with the followers from the foxtrot parade pirouetting and curtseying around long forgotten memories.

The angels carried the word of death on a voice of destruction issuing from a littered skyline. Celestial avengers pouncing on a world weary hoard of floating, spinning flowers. Scything in beneath the long acid rainfall, along bubbling, bloated rivers to wreak the armageddon on the unrepentant and uninnocent.

The lonely virgin’s silver stained tears mixed with dripped doom laying steadily on the havocked crowd. The dancing flowers, fell, clumsy and inelegant. The angels swooped and soared. Death came and left. The battle, nought more than massacre, gave life to the weeded field. The virgin gave life to the new royalty, fit for purpose and long yet to reach it’s prime.