The Last Broadcast

Text 1: The Warning, by Elian Mercer

An original short story extract.

At first Idris treated the warning as another interruption. He tapped the pencil against the desk while the red lamp blinked above the radio. Outside, rain blurred the harbour lights until they looked like coins sinking into black water. The message came through in broken pieces: the eastern path was closed; anyone still on the headland should turn back.

He read the words he had copied onto the pad beside the set. Then he read them again, more slowly. His pencil stopped tapping. The radio hissed, and the room seemed to shrink around that small, patient sound.

‘Say it again,’ he said.

This time the reply was clear. A family had not come back from the headland. Idris reached for the microphone, then drew his hand away. The station manager had gone home; the old transmitter had not been tested in months. He looked at the dark window, where the harbour lights trembled and broke.

He switched on the microphone. His first words came out thin, almost swallowed by the rain. He stopped, breathed, and began again. He gave the warning slowly, leaving space between each instruction. When he finished, he kept his hand on the switch. The red lamp still blinked. Somewhere beyond the glass, one harbour light steadied.