Welcome to Flashes of Sanity! Your daily dose of flash fiction on 500 words or less.
Today’s entry: Winged Prayer
”Forgive us for what we are about to do.” Mort mumbled with his hands pressed against each other. “Forgive us for disrupting what you have built.”
Mort glanced to his left and to his right. His team was there. All on their knees and all with their hands tied. All mumbling in unison. None of them believed this would make any difference.
It was a tradition, that’s all.
And when you go to war, traditions might actually be what keeps you sane.
“May you write about our victory, and the re-stabilization of what once was.” Bale continued from his place by the door. Behind the door, they could all hear the frenetic taping that was the great writer’s trademark. The sighs of pain were trademarks too.
“Oh, Great Writer, spare us in this battle. Give us your strength. Give us your mercy. Detest those ignorant enough to face us.”
A short silence came after the words followed by “Amen.”
Mort arose on his feet. He dusted his knees with his hands.
The dark fabric was ugly. Mort was a man made for white clothing. As all angels are. The dark should be a thing for the past, something they had forgotten.
The recent incidents in hell proved that as an illusion.
“Go to your groups,” Bale continued. “The plan is to send you down in the morning to scout the premises.”
Mort found his squad of five. Astu, Gron, Blan, Fulg and himself Mort.
“Are you ready?” Blan asked.
“Go fuck yourself Blan,” Mort said.
Copyright © David B. Johansson 2021