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Post by franklinmarsh on May 18, 2010 16:37:42 GMT
Peterloo. The 1923 Cup Final. Grosvenor Square. Kent State. Attica. Bloody Sunday. Notting Hill. Grunwick. Brixton. The Miners Strike.
All his life, the Colonel had studied crowd control, and the suppression of subversives. He’d begun to think he was pretty good at it. Then, just when least expected, the enemy within had struck. A new kind of subversion he hadn’t foreseen. These bastards could pop up anywhere. State of the art surveillance couldn’t keep tabs on them. You believed that you were safe and then – BANG! They were everywhere, hundreds of ‘em, overrunning your defences, causing mayhem.
He’d seen many good friends succumb. How could you fight them? It seemed like you couldn’t. But from the depths of despair, he’d found good people, willing to take on horrific odds.
The sheer scale of the problem overwhelmed him, and he broke down. She came and took his hand, offering words of comfort. He managed to stand up, and, with her supporting him, tottered towards the chemotherapy suite.
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Post by Calenture on May 19, 2010 12:19:59 GMT
I guess this is as Flash as Flash Fiction gets. And there's nothing at all wrong with it. Within its limitations, it works, and the only danger of writing further comments might be that they'd take up more space than the story!
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Post by benedictjjones on Jun 6, 2010 8:26:15 GMT
ha - that threw me i hadn't scrolled down (to realise how long this piece was) and was just getting into this when it twisted on me!!
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