Poll

Vote for your favorite 2.  Voting closes midnight Saturday, June 23rd

Untitled 1
2 (8%)
Untitled 2
3 (12%)
Anglo Irish Relations
7 (28%)
The Toast
3 (12%)
Changing Times
10 (40%)

Total Members Voted: 12

Voting closed: June 23, 2012, 09:32:23 AM

Author Topic: Flash Fiction #48 Vote  (Read 593 times)

Offline Laura H

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Flash Fiction #48 Vote
« on: June 16, 2012, 09:32:23 AM »
Untitled 1


“Huh?”
“I said, ‘Do you know these men?’”
The officer demanding an answer didn’t frighten me. I’d seen shadows darker than him before.  
“Let me get my glasses.” Martha, God bless her soul, had bought me one of those eye glass chains for around my neck. I had forever been losing my glasses. She had told me in our last quiet moments, ‘Now I’ll have one less thing to worry about in Heaven’.
 
“Hurry up, ole man!”
I lifted them to my neck and took the photo. At first glance I thought my eyes were deceiving. But, no, it had to be them. Shit. What were the odds?

Those three crossed my path back in December. Big City Boys looking for trouble. All dressed up, not a stain to be found. I let the locals at our pub ply them with spirits, had the women offer to show their wares  and then took my leave to prepare. It was only the orange glow, low in the sky that told me things were under way.

I came upon their scene.
 
‘S-s-ssave me’
‘Burn… BURN!’

My sheep jeered at their victims’ cries, though two men were well past screaming. Their fat popped and sizzled in flames. The third had remained unscathed. He glistened in fear, excited me. I spoke.

‘IT IS A SIGN!’

Hands rushed to free. Weakened, he collapsed.

‘Bury these others.’

It took a moment to remember their faces but it was enough of a time delay for a formidable sized callused fist to materialise at the edge of my vision. “Last chance.”
“No I’ve never seen them.”
I lied. Because I’m not done with my pretty. God bless him, he makes me so deliciously naughty. Oh, I‘ll let him go.

Well, maybe.



Untitled 2

As a young man Randy Bastarde may have had a monogrammed silk scarf, hand embroidered by his first conquest, but he was never going to make the grade and be allowed into the gang as a full-time member.  Oh sure, they let him hang around, like any other prospect.  Let him buy drinks and the occasional burger for the full members.  Sometimes they even allowed him to pose with the lads.  

   After all, his reputation with the chicks made sure there was a regular stream of gullible young girls around, and even Randy couldn't handle all the action on his own.  So the others had to take up the slack as it were, just out of friendship, and to keep the little honey pots warm for when the master was available.

   But despite his near equine reputation there was one thing which always kept Randy in the background, hands hidden behind his back like a cuffed villain.

   He just couldn't get the gloves to work for him.  Gloved up he looked like a janitor in a suit, or a policeman on point duty.

   Ray Bann, with his unbuttoned jacket and corrugated forehead looked undoubtedly mean, and Jonny Jerk, with his leather jacket and suspiciously placed left hand, could out-cool the young Marlon Brando without even trying.

   But Randy just looked like an idiot, even when he tried wearing one glove on his head and the other on a lower part of his anatomy.

   In later years, having moved into computers and made a fortune second only to Bill Gates, this reclusive multi-millionaire hunted down every last physical picture he could find of the Big Glove Gang and destroyed them.  But he couldn't beat the global spread of the damned internet, and sadly died, a broken man, penniless and barehanded.




Anglo-Irish Relations


Breda Murphy and Sadie Magee continued clearing lumps of masonry from the corrugated roof of the Anderson shelter. “See your Harry, bloody useless. Any time there’s real trouble, he’s nowhere to be found. When I catch him . . .” Sadie paused to wipe her brow. “C’mon, wouldya. If there’s another one of them big blasts we’ll need somewhere to go.”

Breda sighed and cleared some rubble away. “Aye, you’re right. I don’t know why I bother with the good-for-nothing ould sod. Did y’ever get to see your big Yank again? The one with the two good-looking friends?”

Sadie blushed.

“Oh, so you did. What’s he getting you this time? Stockings? Chocolate?”

“I don’t know. He’s hoping to get petrol for the motor car and maybe we’ll go for a drive, have a wee court.”

“Well, you just watch yourself down Lover’s Lane. Mind you don’t get anything ‘extra’, d’ye hear me?” Breda leant against the shelter. “Ach, I’m only gurning. Sure you have fun while you can. Where’s he from?”

“Chicago.”

“But he sounds foreign.”

“It’s Polish, Jackowo Zapraszamy.”

“Must be love if you can pronounce that. You sure he’s a Yank and not a German spy?”

“No way. He sounds like one them film stars. Doesn’t quite understand us though.”

Sadie furrowed her brow then grinned. “I wouldn’t mind putting one of his friends right.” She winked.

“Well, he swaggered into a garage in Carnlough looking for oil. He spots some on the shelf, so he looks at the wee man and asks, sort of friendly like. Can o’ BP, buddy? He glances back at his friends, smiling all clever, and the wee man says, dry as you like, Can a wasp shite? Took him a while to catch on it was a joke.”

Sadie chuckled. “He’ll learn.”



The Toast

In another week Bill, Jack and Harry would be leaving for flight training with the Royal Air Force.  The winds of war were blowing strong on the Continent by the summer of 1939 as recruiters for the RAF fanned out across the land.  Those new Spit Fires veteran pilots talked about were a dream; they said the planes could turn on a penny.

The three met one more time at the Rose and Thorn Pub outside Kent for a last pint before taking the omnibus to report for duty.

Bill’s girlfriend, Elizabeth took a last picture of the three posing near the pub before they went inside.

“Well we at least passed the exam to fly,” said Bill as Harry claimed an empty table for them.

Jack ordered the pints of ale.  He wasn’t saying anything as they sat at the table.  The proprietor brought over the glasses of ale.  Paying for the ale they sat staring at the drinks for a minute.  

Harry lifted his glass, looked around the table, the noise of the pub washed away in that moment as they stared at their glasses knowing they might be their last.   Harry swallowed and said in a strong voice, “I propose a toast to our friendship and camaraderie and to our future – whatever that might be in the Royal Air Force…”

“Here, here …” the others shouted then drank deeply of the ale, setting their glasses down.  

“Where did the captain say we’ll be taking our training again?”  Bill asked looking at the ale left in his glass.

Harry drank another draught of the ale then said, “I understand it’s supposed to be that new station outside of London called Mildenhall.”

The other were not sure.  

They finished their pints, standing, Bill mused, “I wonder if the Yanks will get involved again or stay neutral this time?”

“Only time will tell.”  Harry waved to the proprietor as the group left the pub.



Changing Times


He picked up the photograph gingerly with shaky fingers. Age had taken its toll on him and the picture. That was him on the left, Roger Bramshawe, with Charles Hillings-Smythe in the middle and Edward Pilkington on the right.

What great chums they’d been at Eton. Inseparable. Then war had come and they’d all joined up. Charles had joined the RAF, one of Churchill’s ‘Brylcream Boys’ flying Spit’s; Edward, the Army then the Commandos after Churchill had wanted volunteers for special forces from June, 1940 onwards; and Roger had joined the Navy.

In those days, social privilege and standing were reflected in rank, with Charles joining as a Flight Lieutenant, Edward as a Captain, and he as a Lieutenant. None of them had ever commanded men, but it was assumed with the right breeding they could.

Charles was the first to go. Shot down in flames over France in late ’41. He already had 6 kills under his belt – an Ace after 5, but still he went.

Edward went next, behind enemy lines after D-Day. Hitler’s orders were to shoot all captured British Commandos as spies. Edward’s team had been cut off and they fought hard until they ran out of ammunition, knowing their fate, but to no avail.

Roger had been on destroyers and survived relatively unscathed. Promoted to full Captain, he’d commanded his own craft from late ’43 onwards, serving in the Indian and Pacific theatres. They even arrived in Japan soon after VJ Day.

Leaving the Navy twelve years later, life had since been calm. But still the memories haunted him. Nowadays they’d be allowed to express their love. They’d be ‘gay’, but in those days it was a criminal offence. To have been caught was twelve years minimum and social outcasting.

How the times have changed.



modified to correct the contest # to 48
« Last Edit: June 18, 2012, 10:01:42 PM by Laura H »
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