Statement. Flash Fiction.

Derek looked out over the sea of corpses. It was such a waste. Machinery would arrive tomorrow at the earliest to start moving some of them. He had seen it before, when he was younger, and it wasn’t pleasant. Great big bulldozers would push them all into neater piles while diggers would dig mass graves. Then the fires would start. He had never forgotten the smell of the burning, a mix of flesh, clothes and hair, creating an awful, pungent odour that would cling to the area for weeks.

He didn’t know what those people expected to accomplish, but then who could follow what ever crazy thoughts they came up with. He continued on the path that had been fenced off with chain link fences, erected by the city for safety. Derek knew they were pointless, at night looters would come and search the corpses for anything of value, jewellery, a few coins here and there. Any of the clean clothes would be sold to second hand shops. The news had reported that they were some kind of new cult, all dying together in a mass suicide. Derek didn’t know the full details, didn’t want to know, but he had heard bits and pieces about them before. Little snippets in passing as they tried to hand him leaflets. They believed that the world was dying, that it was an awful place. Personally he didn’t see what mass suicide would do to change anything, he always wondered why groups like that never did volunteer work to try and improve the areas that they lived in. So far it was the third such group to commit mass suicide this year. There weren’t too many people involved this time, only about three hundred or so. If they were lucky they might get a small statue or fountain to acknowledge that something had happened. Most likely it would just be paved over and never spoken of again. After all there was no one to complain, most of these people had no family, and any who did, well the rich ones wouldn’t want to be associated with it all and the poor ones didn’t have the power to get anything done. He shook his head, it was all a waste. At least this group was a bit considerate. The last one had jumped from buildings, all at once. They had crushed and injured almost a hundred people who had just been going about their days. He shook his head slightly and pushed those thoughts away. It wasn’t pleasant to dwell on them. Soon he’d be at home, he’d have dinner, maybe a beer and unwind with some TV. It had been a stressful day after all, he just didn’t have the energy to worry about stuff like that. Stuff that, in the grand scheme of things, just wasn’t really that important in his life or anyone elses.




About Alan James Keogh

I am a 26 year old writer who somehow tricked U.C.D. into giving me not only a degree in English and Classical studies, but an Hons Masters in Creative Writing too. Visit my blog where I post short stories twice a week (Monday and Wednesday) and an installment of a serialised novel on Fridays. I did consider writing this in the third person, as though it was written by someone else, but Alan is not comfortable writing in the third person as it seems kinda creepy and unbalanced so Alan decided it was probably best to write in the first person. He hopes it went well for him.
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