It was a typical late September evening, and I found myself with some free time. My business trips to England usually occur once a year, and I relished the chance to explore and meet new people. Strolling the streets near my hotel, I yearned for company. The thought of spending the evening alone held little appeal, so I kept an eye out for a welcoming pub. Fortunately, just around the corner of Devonshire and Greene, I stumbled upon The Bull Dog.
Upon entering, I was greeted by a poker-faced elderly gentleman who walked with the most precise, erect carriage. “G’dev’ning, sire.”
“Uh, yes, if you wish.”
“Might I offer the fine gentleman a seat. Join me. Are you a writer?”
“A writer? Beg your pardon. Why, yes. But how did you know?”
“I’ve been waiting for a writer. Expecting you. I hope you are THE writer.”
“Well, it could be a mistake, I suppose.”
He made no further comment, and we sat in silence. He ordered two steins of Guinness and paid for them, offering no explanation for why he sought a writer’s company. Eventually, I ventured a comment on the weather.
“Miserable weather,” I said.
“Un-hmm.”
“Quite a chill wind.”
“Uh-hmm.”
“Good thing I found somewhere warm.”
“Un-hm.”
The conversation went nowhere. Finally, he introduced himself. “Jack Moore. And you are?”
“Ed Nichols,” I replied, shaking his hand firmly.
Moore leaned in, eyes blazing. “I used to be a Royal Buckingham Guard. I am here to tell my story, and you, sir, will write it.”
I laughed nervously. “And what story might that be?”
He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “England is ruled by the Devil. The Devil rules not openly, but through the discipline of the Guards. And the Guards are trained — not by men, but by flies.”
* * *
It took time, patience, and considerable disbelief on my part to absorb Moore’s tale. Each new recruit is taken to a secluded courtyard, often at dawn, where the first lesson begins: observe. Every fly that enters the space is a teacher. Landing, circling, departing — each gesture conveys a message. Guards learn to read patterns imperceptible to ordinary men. Those who falter are quietly removed from duty, their fate whispered about in corridors of marble and shadow.
“The flies,” Moore said, “are not mere insects. They are the eyes of the unseen sovereign. The Lord of the Flies — yes, there is such a one — watches, judges, and corrects. Every flap of a wing, every pause upon a fingertip, is part of the examination. Obey, adapt, anticipate — or vanish.”
I tried to imagine the training: rows of soldiers, hands poised, faces stoic, each movement measured to the rhythm of wingbeats invisible to all but the initiated. “And you? Did you survive the training?” I asked.
Moore’s eyes twinkled. “Survive? I thrived. But only because I learned to listen, not just with my ears, but with my mind, my blood, my very bones.”
He paused. The fly that had landed on my glass earlier hovered briefly, then vanished. “Do you understand why I brought you here?”
“I… think so,” I said. “To tell the story?”
“Yes. And to warn. Not of England, not of kings, but of attention. Of seeing what is not easily seen. The world bends subtly when those in power are trained by those who are unseen. You, too, must notice, or you will be blinded.”
Over the next several days, I began to notice subtle oddities: soldiers standing with a peculiar stiffness, pigeons pausing unnaturally, and the ever-present hum of city life seeming punctuated by invisible watchers. Moore’s words replayed in my mind: “Obey, adapt, anticipate.”
One evening, as I walked along the Thames, I glimpsed a guard on duty. He made no movement beyond the minimal turn of the head. Yet something in his eyes suggested he knew of me, though I had never met him. A fly landed on his cuff, paused, then departed. I shivered.
That night, back at the hotel, Moore appeared in my mind’s eye, not physically, but with a clarity more vivid than any apparition. “The story must be written carefully,” he said. “Detail the absurd, the impossible, the mundane that masks the extraordinary. Only then will it serve its purpose. England’s power is not brute; it is subtle. It is in obedience, in discipline, in unseen forces. And the Lord of the Flies is patient. Very patient.”
I began to write, first hesitantly, then with growing confidence. Each sentence seemed guided by a will beyond mine. I described the pub, the fly, Moore’s rigid carriage, the invisible hierarchy. Every detail, no matter how minor, carried a resonance.
And the more I wrote, the more the world around me seemed to align with the tale. A fly paused on my shoulder. A guard passed silently in the street. I realized: the story and reality were no longer separate. Writing was not merely documentation; it was recognition, participation, obedience, and awakening.
When I finished the manuscript, I left it at the pub, under a loose floorboard, where Moore had indicated. He would know where to find it. And as I stepped outside into the London night, a fly landed lightly on my hand, then darted away. I did not try to catch it. I only watched.
I understood then: the story was not mine alone. It belonged to those who observe, who notice, who pay attention when the world whispers in wingbeats. England’s power, subtle and strange, had been revealed. And yet, perhaps, only those willing to see — and to write — would ever know it.
Walking down an empty street I felt the chill of September, the weight of invisible eyes, and the strange exhilaration of witnessing a secret order older than any throne.
* * *
Backstory: I wrote the first two-thirds of this years ago but never knew how to finish it.
I submitted my unifinshed text to Grok with a prompt to complete it. Then I turned to
editing what Grok produced, which I have now shared here. This is a work of fiction.
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