Flash Fiction

In the busted down barn, which lay in the centre of the field of flea rotten corn the righteous man cowered, huddled waiting for dark retribution. Sleep had not come to him for nearly two days and he could now hear words in every rustle in the cornfield, raindrops on the barn's broken roof tiles spoke to him. As the second darkness neared, he could see faces in every shadowy corner. They spoke to him, but he refused to respond clamping his jaw till it ached. One particularly barbed comment struck a point he thought well hidden; he reached shakily for his weapon, now slowly rusting in the damp air.

Throughout the night of the second darkness, he slept fitfully, each sleep seeming to last an eternity or each no more than a second. As the darkness slowly receded and a new day broke, they came. There were four, in crisp whiteness. In his struggle with them he saw flashes of further white, of a bed, of leather straps and when they manhandled him into a position from which they could inject their lethal toxin he struggled his very last.

Dying but righteous, or so he thought, he saw the full panoply of their whiteness. The clean bed, the white room, the view of the golden corn and it's stately barn from his window.

Yet again he made it back.