I'm Going to Post a smattering of stuff that I've been working on for other websites, so If people want to comment, tell me it's shit, tell me it's good, edit, cut it up, etc they can. Just don't nick it, because that makes me sad. Also, ignoring is an option.
Brother Britain - 1975; The Salisbury plains
Last Night, I saw Britannia across the verge. I left the comfort of my little group on the hill, and walked the mile and a half to the Stone Henge. The sky was filled with colours, great bands of Red, Blue and White, arranged into half approximations of the Union Jack, and the Saint George’s Cross.
The grass underneath my feet was littered with pieces of armour, Swords and Arrows that had been loosed on invading armies. With every footfall of my sandaled feet, the chink of armour is heard from every step. Trepidation wrote itself on my soul, and my hands sweat words, each dripping onto the ground.
I opened my palms to see my fears written before me. Death of my soul and life; decay of society and morality; and the loss of our individuality as a culture. I felt my throat clog up with phlegm and with hatred and fear, I didn’t want England to die. We’d not just fought in and taken part in two world Wars so that we could have our identity be over written, had we?
As fear gave way to anger, I reached the summit of the verge, stood in the centre of Stone Henge, looking down at the beautiful blonde woman caked in dirt. I lifted my head to the sky as the heavens opened in a hail of spirituality, soaking my body through with mysticism. The beautiful blonde Britannia lay in the Mud, her helmet rusted and cracked, and her pure dress marked with blood and muck.
I held her in my arms, kneeling in the waste and bile, pulling her onto my lap. She cried for what seemed like hours, her tears rolling onto me and soaking into my skin, causing my own eyes to water, cascading bullets of trauma and pain I’ve never felt before in my life and probably never will, dropping onto her face.
I’ve never hurt so much in my life.
She asked me of my dreams and the others I’ve met. How did she know? My dreams made me feel unsteady; I’ve never felt part of anything larger until I met my friends. Our recreational lifestyle and freedom’s have never been so prominent, but it means that we’re not part of traditional society; we’re not part of the mainstream.
We don’t fit.
When I sleep, I sometimes see the future, and I walk through the fields and orchards of Kent, through the Apple Trees and into the grasslands, sucking in the air into my lungs, air that tastes of apples and bluebells. There is a gathering ahead, always a gathering, they call themselves the Generational, as a joke, you see. England is defined not just by location and accent, but by humour. Irony seems to be a staple.
I shake hands with Queen Victoria the First, and Saint George. I moved closer into the crowd, meeting the Gaul who fended off the Romans, and the first Christian convert of England. I meet the man who brought science to the cusp of Civilisation, Charles Darwin, and I meet the woman who brought fire to England. They’re here, every dream, almost every night, guiding me, taking my hand when I sleep and eat and make love, when I spread my drug fuelled viral message through music and speech.
She asks me again of it all and I don’t know what to tell her. I stroke her hair as the stipulations of her sentences come home, causing my mind to reel as the armour around us begins to reform, taking a life of its own. The Generational, an army a hundred strong, stood in the distance, side by side, dresses, bare feet, boots and shoes in the dirt. Their weapons by their hands or their sides; each baring the Union Jack, or Saint George’s Cross on their body somewhere. Some coated in that garb, others wearing a simple pin or badge. Regardless of their dress, they all stood ready to fight for the cause. The cause is England. The meaning of what England is.
Britannia suddenly sat bolt upright, scrabbling through the dirt for her Helmet. I smile and hand it to her and she takes it with soft, delicate hands. She kisses me gently on the lips and whispers to me, running her bloodied hands across my chest, forming a primal and dyed version of the Union Jack.
“You are my Captain.” She whispered. She was scared, I could see from her face, and her words, the fear had gripped her. My own ears pricked up when I heard the sound of a great battle. I turned to look through the pillars ahead of me and down across the hillock, where the battle took place.
It was a battle of God’s and Dragon’s, against our Generational army, and our forces were losing.
“We both have to fight to win this war, my Captain.” She whispered, stood upright, back straight and chest pushed out. She produced a vorpal blade from nowhere, its length warped and twisted like the roots of an Oak tree, pulled free of their moorings by strong winds.
I heard the familiar sound of Horse shoes against cobble, and the purring of Cats. I turned to her, trying to ignore the sounds that were in the distance, I took her hand, and she spoke to me. Words of confidence, power and relevance that cut through me, as she slid her blade into the ground.
“For us to win this battle, My Captain, we must take your knowledge with us. We must take the knowledge that you harbour within you, and the knowledge of this age to battle.” I released her hand in shock and awe as the sounds materialised in the form of a Unicorn, who’s shining coat was only offset by its own huge, natural bone weapon, and a Lion, who’s mane was so long and handsome it touched the ground, though no dirt touched or clung to it.
I asked her what the knowledge of my age meant, and she touched my lips, and my forehead.
“You already know.” She said, moving to her steed, and climbing onto the back of the Unicorn.
I walked to the Lion, who brushed his face against my arm, while I deciphered the code that Britannia had left me. What was the knowledge of my age, what were the thoughts and weapon that I harboured in me that no-one else had?
I looked down at my tie-dye T-Shirt, and sandals and knew instantly. The moment of realisation was pure and bright, like a sun crashing into me. I climbed onto my steed, who took on my colours, the swirling mass of the Psychotropic ideals my generation had generated.
The lion lurched forwards, as I swung my hand down, grabbing the sword from the ground, and swinging it over my head, letting it fall level. As the large cat and I bounded down the hill, I let loose a cry of rage I’d never felt in the pits of my stomach before.
My name was Brother Britain, and for that single Battle, I was Captain of Britannia’s armies.
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