David Francis

“The Adventures of the Urban Survival Squad in Post-holocaust Britain” by David Francis

Submitted to Contest #80

In the beginning there was that which was not, and that which strove to be. A single point of infinite potential, floating gently in no-where, un-waiting in no time, existing quietly and unremarkably in Void.  Until suddenly (although ‘suddenly’ is used here for dramatic narrative effect as no time yet existed and therefore nothing could happen in any linear manner, suddenly or otherwise!), and for no readily apparent reason, exploded. Hmmm. Exploded, hardly does the moment justice. Gargantuanly humongous colossally shaking the pilla...

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“A Memory of Stamford Bridge” by David Francis

Submitted to Contest #80

I feel the cold now in so many more ways. The chill winter air torments my joints with spikes of pain, damp air from the endless rains attacks my back and shoulders, the ancient scar tissues pulling tight and bleeding intermittently. Who would be old? I sit now hunched by my daughter’s hearth fire, sipping warmed ale that no longer brings me joy, supping on past defeats with their bitter after-taste. Curmudgeonly, her husband called me this morning, a moaning old man, long out of his time. Hah! He is not wrong. Once I could have wrestled h...

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“The Gift” by David Francis

Submitted to Contest #79

Dark pendulous clouds, pregnant with impending rain, further blackened the sky above me, obscuring the star filled sky. Chill air whipping past me, icy fingers clawing their way through the old cracked leather of my jacket.Not for the first time I found myself wondering what the hell I was doing riding down the A30 in the middle of the night heading towards Land's End. The ancient vee-twin heart of the beast I was astride purred beneath me, testament to the years of care my dad had lavished upon it, a motorcycle of unrevealed and mysterious ...

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“The Meet” by David Francis

Submitted to Contest #78

The heady aroma of fresh cut grass fills my nostrils with its powerful perfume as the summer sun beats down. The wind ruffles my light jacket as I power the bicycle along one of Cornwall’s high hedged, winding lanes, my legs pumping, the breath sharp in my lungs as I push onwards. Every so often the hedgerow dips, or opens up on a rickety looking gate, and a vista of green, rock-strewn fields opens up with the sparkling blue of the sea in the distance.The sea is never far away anywhere in this beautiful county, and as the road begins to rise...

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“Blood on my hands” by David Francis

Submitted to Contest #75

Can you see the blood on my hands? Me neither, but I know it’s there. I can feel it, like acid on my skin. It writhes and burns, and sometimes, just out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of it. But not often. I don’t know whose blood it is, and I don’t know how it got there. I have no memory of it. I have no memory of anything apart from the last two days. Two days ago, I opened my eyes, and found myself standing in small general store, my hand outstretched to pick up a can of beans. It never made it. I just stood and stared at...

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“Doorway” by David Francis

Submitted to Contest #75

Doorway The hall was sparsely furnished and smelled of damp. Electric heaters mounted on the peeling walls gave off a reluctant heat that barely touched the chill atmosphere of the darkened interior. Once, long ago, this had been a vibrant community hall, thronging with people and paved with good intentions. But that was when the neighbourhood was new built, fresh hope still abounded in the   optimistic community settlement, and work was plentiful. Now though, like the hall’s peeling walls and neglected furniture, the community...

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“Stalker” by David Francis

Rain drenches the streets, gift of a tear-sodden sky. Sodium-orange streetlights etch harsh shadows in the mouths of alleyways as night draws a veil of forgetfulness over the anonymous city. A row of dark windows act as empty witnesses gazing through uncaring eyes, their silent un-vigil punctuated at intervals by the flicker of television sets, casting mindless images into the ether of non-imagination. A man lies slumped in a doorway, huddling for the meagre transient shelter offered by a tattered awning. Alcoholic fumes ...

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“The Tally Wall” by David Francis

Submitted to Contest #74

Come, see with my eyes.An endless expanse of water, white flecked with laughing foam, reckless swell heaving across a 1000-mile wake. The sun is kind today. Its lended warmth is smiling and caressing, carried by a gentle wind and spreading its net across the vast, empty blue ocean.It is not always so. Sometimes the sun hides its face.Sometimes the wind has teeth.Sometimes, the water rages in towering chaos waves that crash and thunder.Ships do not come here. The mark of presence is only present in the floating junk yards of the discarde...

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“The Fall” by David Francis

Submitted to Contest #74

Trigger warning: suicide   It’s fine really.   The wind is buffeting my body and it is so chill, but it won’t take long. I can’t help remembering how it was only yesterday; images flicker across my mind’s eye, the celluloid trail of a movie that charts my journey to the now, and to here.   My world was warm yesterday, full of life and promise, and pathways untrodden and un-numbered, stretching away to horizons brimming with hope. What fools we are. Believing our own stories, the narratives we spin around ourselves to give us m...

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