Lonely Stories, Xavier St John [top 10 books of all time .TXT] 📗

The King’s Men

The wood of the cathedral door audibly splintered as it was slammed open. A fat man strode in, a squad of bodyguards brandishing pikes scuttling behind him as he menacingly stamped along the stone. At the other end of the cathedral, the Archbishop looked up, his eyes widening as the vanguard closed on him. Other priests and monks bowed their head, eyes boring holes in the floor, but the archbishop stood his ground in front of the altar until the fat man stood, inches from his face. The pikemen filed out in a semi-circle around their leader, protecting him with a wall of spikes. The man looked straight into the quivering archbishop's eyes.
"I want a divorce," growled Henry VIII, King of England.

The Archbishop led the king through a stone arch and down a side-passage. As the keys rattled in the archbishop's shaking hands, the king barked orders at the pikemen. In unison, they formed a human shield across the opening to the archway, barricading the King and the Archbishop inside together. The wooden door finally creaked open as the Archbishop hastily tucked his keys away beneath the folds of his vestments. Hurrying inside, the clergyman tripped over the threshold, the King guffawing as he followed him inside the room.
"So Thomas. What do I have to do?" Henry asked, locking the oak door behind him. Thomas More bristled slightly. Henry repeated the question slowly, taking a step towards the Archbishop.
"You can't! It's not allowed, especially not for your kind!" he squeaked. The King's eyes narrowed, and he lumbered towards him, knocking parchment and quills off the desk as he came closer.
"Catherine knows. She'll shut up, but I need a new wife," Henry said coldly. Thomas walked backwards until he bumped against his desk, knocking ink across dozens of delicately written letters.
"But to get a new wife, I need to divorce her. What do I have to do?" asked Henry, a hint of malice creeping into his voice. The Archbishop slowly reached behind his back, his hand fumbling across the desk silently.
"Nobody can divorce, the church won't allow it. You're stuck with her. You can do your sinful activities, but you can't remarry," said More quietly as his hand finally clasped the feathers of a quill. Henry grabbed a Bible from beside him.
"I am your King!" he bellowed, brandishing the holy book like a brick as he grabbed Thomas by the neck. A bead of sweat dripped from the Archbishop's forehead onto one of Henry's sausage fingers. As the King's hand constricted around Thomas's neck, the quill from the desk was scribbling a shaky note onto a forgotten piece of parchment.

After a few seconds Henry released Thomas and paced the room, slamming the Bible back onto a table as he passed it.
"If your church won't let me, my church will," the King muttered. Thomas laughed nervously.
"You can't make your own church. Besides, what would you do when the next one inevitably finds out?"
Thomas's hand shook as he finished writing, and dropped the quill. It thunked against an inkpot with a resonating ding. Henry turned to him and stared.
"Divorce her. Or kill her. Depends if she can keep her mouth shut," he replied. Thomas paled and a shiver ran along his spine. He knew. And his mouth wouldn't be shut for long.

Henry unlocked the door and yelled into the hallway. The pikemen charged into the study, flanking either side of Henry.
"Grab him," the King ordered. Fear filled the Archbishop's body as the men marched towards him, hoisting him up under his harms.
"I promise, I won't tell! I'll tell them it's because she didn't give you a boy!" Thomas shouted as the bodyguards dragged him through the doorway. Henry watched stonefaced before turning to the desk. He stalked over, searching amongst the split ink-pots and broken quills. Finally, he saw the note. Grabbing the parchment from the desk, Henry read it:
'LET IT BE KNOWN - THE KING IS IN LOVE WITH MEN. THE SINNER WILL BURN'.
The king sighed, balled up the parchment and slipped it into his pocket.
"Because she couldn't have a boy..." he murmured.
"That's not bad."

Betrayal

I sat, crying, in the oval office.

‎"I love you." I mumbled down the telephone. Static was all I heard in reply. My crimson tie was tight around my neck, constricting my throat like a noose, and my crisp white shirt was soaked with sweat. A single thread of light limply slipped through the window, the ray it cast across the floor slowly shrinking and losing ground to the growing dark; even the sun was running from me. Wiping the invading tears from my face, I slowly moved upwards, twisting my body so I could glimpse the door. Behind the oak gatekeeper, I could hear shouting and the occasional thump, but the chest of drawers in front of it prevented entry. Quickly, I darted back under the desk, breathing in, out, in, out, short and laboured. I shut my eyes, hands clasped tight in a desperate prayer, and opened my eyes again. It was just as dark. The sun had escaped. And suddenly, a blinding white light filled the office...

The camera flashed, and I greeted the reporters with a smile. An ocean of questions and comments flooded the room. The man to my left stood and raised his hand, stemming the flow of noise from the audience - silence ensued.

'The new President of the United States and I will take your questions now. One at a time please."

The Vice-President sat back down, glancing back at me with a knowing smile. This was where he belonged and thrived, calm and collected, with perfectly sculpted answers to every question. His hands lay on the table, passive and friendly, whereas mine lay under the desk on my lap - nobody could see the way they shook there...

A tremor ran through through my body as my face was illuminated by the powerful electric light, which was accompanied by a strange thumping noise. Raising a hand to my face, I staggered to my feet, my face buffeted by the wind screaming through the open french doors. A booming voice cut though the darkness.

"Mr Steele, this government is no longer under your control. You are now a prisoner of the State."

I couldn't see where the voice was coming from, the light was blinding and the black enveloped all behind it. A single glimmer of reflection in my peripheral vision caught my eye. Glancing sideways, I saw the picture of my daughter and wife...

"Daddy!" shouted my daughter. Smiling to the telephone, I watched the sun slide closer to the horizon as I listened to her rave about her day at school. However, my thoughts were pre-occupied. The education bill was to be debated tomorrow, and the Vice President had not entered the White House all day. How could he miss today, of all days? Still speaking on autopilot to my daughter, I wondered where he was. He must be ill. Dragging myself back to reality, I re-entered the conversation with my girl:

"And today, at school, Sam said I was pre-"

She stopped abruptly. A muffled noise followed for a few seconds, and was then replaced by quiet.

"Hello?" I asked questioningly, worried that the phone had been cut off - it wouldn't be the first time after all.

"Mark, get out of there. Now." My wife was speaking hurriedly and breathing heavily.

"It's a coup. The military. GET OUT."

The room spun. I lurched out of my chair, wrenching open the door to the office as I ran into the corridor - the building was unchanged. The hustle and bustle of the White House was still there, telephones ringing, until - BANG. A gunshot. Screams. Turning, I ran back into the room, slamming the door and ramming the chest beside it in front. Grabbing the telephone, I opened my mouth to speak...

"I will not surrender my c-c-country." I shouted. The white light shut off, and suddenly it became very clear where the voice had come from, and what was causing the strange noise. A large, black helicopter hovered in front of me, side doors open and cockpit flooded with red light. I noticed the noise from behind my door had stopped - shouts turned to silence. My hair was swept back, buffeted by the wind from the propellors. I stood my ground against the mechanical beast, beads of sweat sliding across my forehead.

"A-A-America will survive. My country will not f-fall." I shouted, louder this time.

"I'm sorry sir." boomed the voice. Was there a slight hint of sadness? The blood-red light seeping from the cockpit suddenly cut off, and was replaced by a single red dot, shining alone in the dark. Pointing at me. I looked down, following the path of the light though the black, and realised too late that a laser dot had appeared on my shirt. A laser dot poised over my heart.

Bang.

President

Nervous excitement filled the air as the crowd watched the small television eagerly. The sun was just rising outside, illuminating the lawn with shreds of light running across the grass. As the news presenter pointed to the blue and red sections of the map, he suddenly stopped, audibly gasped, took a moment, and turned to face directly into the camera. The room hushed. Absolute silence, all concentration focused on the small man and what he had to say. Sam leaned forward, hoping, praying to God that all the work was worth it and that it was true. The presenter smiled at the camera, and announced:

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the Democrats have a majority. Sam Turner will be the next president of the United States.”

The crowd erupted, drinks flying as arms crashed into each other in a merry jig. He’d won. Congratulations and celebrations spilled across