Two Charcoal Statues
by James McPherson
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: Death on a lonely desert road in war-torn Iraq.
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The two figures - side by side - were fused tae the metal, carbonised rubber, melted plastic, and superheated glass of the burnt-out vehicle. Both dead - the stink of boiled urine and baked faeces still lingering - and as black as fucking undertakers’ hats, of course.
They just seemed tae be there - suddenly materialised - fell from the fucking sky kinda thing - staring ahead - ahead at nothing - looking out of socketless eyes - observing a world, a future they didn’t have - weren’t a part of anymore.
‘Grotesque statues - works of effing art, man!’
That’s how Soldier described them - that’s what he fucking said on one of his rare days - days when he actually spoke about what it was like over there I mean. Charcoal effing icons, he said - that’s what he fucking called them.
He - Soldier - had an illogical, but very real kinda respect for the fuckers - no hero worship as such. I mean, this wasn’t the stuff of heroes exactly - more the actions of a couple of fucking suicidal idiots maybe. Actions of idiots perhaps - but actions that were nevertheless very difficult tae dismiss - know.
The sacrifice of those two burnt offerings weren’t gonna be celebrated - no military ensemble for those two cunts - no fucking heroes’ lament. They weren’t gonna be remembered - Soldier knew that - hell, the two burnt offerings would even have known it themselves. Cremation, and being put out with a fire extinguisher at the side of a lonely road in the middle of the fucking desert - that was their perpetual contribution.
And yet they still did it.
There was no sense tae it - just two charcoal statues at the side of a road - and yet by those same illogical rules - rules the statues shared with Soldier and his crew - rules they lived and perished by - it made all the fucking sense in the world.
It was so powerful - and Soldier hated and loved those two charcoal fuckers so much, it hurt. The tears welled up inside him, and he knew tae his shame that he’d want tae be remembered for something more than that - he simply just wanted tae be remembered - know.
Soldier realised there and then - on that sand-swept road tae nowhere - that he wasn’t as strong as those two charcoal fuckers - he could never be as strong as those two idiotic, beautiful statues.
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: Death on a lonely desert road in war-torn Iraq.
_____________________________________________________________________
The two figures - side by side - were fused tae the metal, carbonised rubber, melted plastic, and superheated glass of the burnt-out vehicle. Both dead - the stink of boiled urine and baked faeces still lingering - and as black as fucking undertakers’ hats, of course.
They just seemed tae be there - suddenly materialised - fell from the fucking sky kinda thing - staring ahead - ahead at nothing - looking out of socketless eyes - observing a world, a future they didn’t have - weren’t a part of anymore.
‘Grotesque statues - works of effing art, man!’
That’s how Soldier described them - that’s what he fucking said on one of his rare days - days when he actually spoke about what it was like over there I mean. Charcoal effing icons, he said - that’s what he fucking called them.
He - Soldier - had an illogical, but very real kinda respect for the fuckers - no hero worship as such. I mean, this wasn’t the stuff of heroes exactly - more the actions of a couple of fucking suicidal idiots maybe. Actions of idiots perhaps - but actions that were nevertheless very difficult tae dismiss - know.
The sacrifice of those two burnt offerings weren’t gonna be celebrated - no military ensemble for those two cunts - no fucking heroes’ lament. They weren’t gonna be remembered - Soldier knew that - hell, the two burnt offerings would even have known it themselves. Cremation, and being put out with a fire extinguisher at the side of a lonely road in the middle of the fucking desert - that was their perpetual contribution.
And yet they still did it.
There was no sense tae it - just two charcoal statues at the side of a road - and yet by those same illogical rules - rules the statues shared with Soldier and his crew - rules they lived and perished by - it made all the fucking sense in the world.
It was so powerful - and Soldier hated and loved those two charcoal fuckers so much, it hurt. The tears welled up inside him, and he knew tae his shame that he’d want tae be remembered for something more than that - he simply just wanted tae be remembered - know.
Soldier realised there and then - on that sand-swept road tae nowhere - that he wasn’t as strong as those two charcoal fuckers - he could never be as strong as those two idiotic, beautiful statues.
About the Author
Glasgow-born James McPherson is a fifty-something single Dad, who gave up his career as a senior care worker a few years back to bring up is daughter. "I've been writing for about ten years," he tells us, "but I really just started taking it seriously three years ago. I've got the bug now. This is all I want to do!"
Among his work so far, James has completed three novels, the most recent of which is Lucifer And Auld Lang Syne.
Among his work so far, James has completed three novels, the most recent of which is Lucifer And Auld Lang Syne.