Most probably due to the Royal Mail Postal Strikes, my monthly writing magazines arrived on the same day. I was eager to see the results of the Flash Fiction short story competition in the Writers Forum I entered last month. I wasn't expecting to see that I had won as they would have been in touch beforehand.
Sadly, I wasn't placed or highly commended this time, not to worry. However, it was interesting to read the editor's comment. It was a 500-word story with a twist ending. The editor wrote on the results page,
'I was surprised to receive so many entries where the main character turns out to be an animal or dead. Such old chestnuts will always struggle to turn a judge's head. A few entries did manage to bring new life to the 'dead ending, but they didn't make it past the shortlist.'
I didn't realise that this is how the judges were thinking about these subjects. I want to feel that my story brought life to the 'dead ending'. It was one that I had used for the Ottery Literary Festival, where it was awarded highly commended. After further editing and a few changes, I entered it for this competition. I received favourable results when I took it to work for a couple of colleagues to read through, and it got the reactions I wanted when they got to the end and the 'twist'.
I will not be using it again for competition other than to submit it for the Ottery Writers anthology or save it for an anthology of my own. I'm now getting a collection of these short stories.
I have another flash fiction short story, this time only 300 words, ready for the Bath Flash Fiction Award to be submitted any day now.
Anyway, for your enjoyment, I will now post the story here. As a note, the details at the end are not accurate. They are close to being correct but far enough away so as not to be recognisable to anyone.
THE Sun shone brightly on Lion-sur-Mer. The late spring sunshine on the Normandy coast starkly contrasted with the dark and dank weather 78 years ago, on the morning of 6th June 1944. Today, on the beach once code-named Sword, a crowd gathered for a service to honour those who had bravely stormed ashore on that momentous morning. Several re-enactment volunteers joined returning heroes and their families. Dressed in the uniforms of the times, they conveyed the scenes and feelings of the battles past.
There is a brilliant blue sky, and it's already a hot day. Thankfully the service didn't last too long in deference to the ageing heroes and the heat.
The assembled crowd enjoyed a cooling, refreshing drink before boarding an air-conditioned coach for the journey to the cemetery at Ranville. I decided to yomp towards Ranville just as the allied troops had in 1944.
The coach passed me. The boys didn't have the luxury of transport on that fateful day. The purring engine of the passing coach differed vastly from the loud explosions, gunshots and the rattle of tanks rumbling along this road 75 years ago.
In 1944 Brigadier Lord Lovat marched his 1st Special Service Brigade down this road with his Bag Piper to the fore. The bagpipes caused much mirth amongst the passing tankers who waved their support to the lines of troops marching, whose task it was to relieve the paratroopers dropped overnight at Pegasus Bridge.
I was close to the bridge, yomping ahead in the day's rising heat. There I could mingle with the re-enactment volunteers to pay my respects. After a break, I picked up my kit and continued towards the cemetery at Ranville.
A loud bang had me diving into the roadside ditch to take cover, but I quickly realised it was the jeep belonging to the re-enactors backfiring. The roar of engine noise as a couple of Douglas DC3 Dakotas flew overhead, dropping their parachute passengers off over Pegasus Bridge. Although today was a hot sunlit day, you could almost smell the fear and death that permeated the area on 6th June 1944.
I neared Ranville; the coaches were offloading the families. I was puffing a bit when I finally arrived at the cemetery.
I went straight to the row where the lads we had lost that day laid to rest. A family joined me alongside the resting place of my colleagues.
"Here's Grandpa's grave. Hasn't it gone cold suddenly?" one of the women remarked.
I turned and tried to answer but knew I couldn't. I looked down at the headstone as the woman placed a small wreath.
I realised it was my headstone; it was me who they were remembering. They are my family.
Ford, Frederick Henry
PLY/X204848
No. 48 Commando
Royal Marines
Died Tuesday, 6th June 1944.
I'm in limbo; I've been here every year since 6th June 1944. I'm not at rest. I'm trapped.
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