The sand(s) of time
@flashfictionfridayofficial
1938 Bamfylde, Devon
“‘How fast the sand of time doth flow’” Howarth's voice was an uneasy whisper in the room, weaker than he felt it should have been, of the common sense of the illness ignored.
Who's is that, Howarth?
“No-one's in particular PJ the frail once solid form said. “Clough might be just as apposite foe the present moment. He coughed a little to clear his throat, “Say not the struggle naught availeth, the Labour and wounds in vain.”
“Another war.”
Howarth grunted, dropped into silence
His sickness rose again at the thought. As if we hadn't turned France and Belgium red with blood, us and the Germans both. And all the boys, bright and curious and keen, sharp with loyalty and fervor which he remembered of those last bright days in the Valleys - before a promised University became khaki and trenches and shells. Now somehow, it seems to be coming round again, what we were determined to stop.
Christopherson, already gone, ghost unmarked. And there would be more to come, because Bamfylde and England had bred them like that, even he had in a way, building in them a strength of conviction and a challenge to the status quo.
“Not your fault PJ, not your fault.” Howarth said softly, “A good mind and an honest heart, you've given them that… from then a man must do as his conscience demands."