Photo: © Al Forbes 2014

Dave Smith saw the red warning light flashing on Dover Tower. No! The crazy fools had actually done it! It could only mean one thing.

War had been declared, and the missiles were on their way. The clock was ticking. Maybe they’d all believe him now.

Dave didn’t need to cancel his papers. He didn’t read any. Didn’t watch the news either. Or listen to the radio. Too much bad news!

He braved the high winds and ran to his garden shed. Once inside, in a drill he’d practised a hundred times, Dave accessed his secret underground bunker. It was a shame he couldn’t convince anyone else of the dangers, but they all just laughed at him. No one knew of his secure location, and now they never would.

Dave looked briefly at the monitors showing his back garden and the famous white cliffs. Everything looked so ordinary and normal. He couldn’t bear to watch the carnage. With a tear in his eye, he shut all the cameras down.

Dave carefully set the timer. He would switch the cameras back on in exactly twelve months time. By then, the dust would have settled. To while away the time, he planned to watch pre-recorded comedy classics on his monitor. They’d keep his spirits up…

A page of the Dover Weekly News blew across his garden. If only Dave had kept his cameras on a minute longer – the headline would have interested him.

COUNTDOWN TO CHRISTMAS:
SANTA’S BEACON LIT!

This story was prompted by Sunday Photo Fiction December 21st 2014, hosted by Al Forbes. Click the logo for more details.

 To view other entries in this challenge, click the link.

Photo: © Al Forbes 2014. Fiction: © Steve Lakey 2014 

My neighbours had turned me in. They told me I was a stupid teenager to break the telescope. How could anyone see the boats coming in now? They said that boys like me only cared about ourselves and gave the village a bad name.

How very brave of them, disowning me through the bars of my cell, before walking away. But I couldn’t live in the world that they accepted, and I had to do something – anything – to tear it down.

The Police had tried to break me, to see me cry. I had cried once, but told them nothing they wanted to know. The hours passed. They had been ‘nice’, and they had used threats. But I had not given in.

“Why that particular telescope? Why now?”

“What other offences of vandalism have you committed?”

“Who else was involved?”

The two policemen weren’t trying to establish guilt – that was already decided from the moment my name was passed on. They wanted to see who else they could pull in. I didn’t have to hold out for long.  I knew they weren’t going to bother a magistrate with a case like this…

My cell door opened and I was led out, blinking, into the sunlit courtyard. A line of grey-clad soldiers were waiting, rifles by their sides.

As the blindfold plunged me into darkness, I cleared my throat and shouted with my last breath.

“Soon the Allies will come and you will be gone! Vive la France!”

This story was prompted by Sunday Photo Fiction October 19th 2014, hosted by Al Forbes. Click the logo for more details.

 To view other entries in this challenge, click the blue frog.

 Photo: © Al Forbes 2014

Bob and Pat had been in the Building trade for more than 70 years between them. You don’t have that sort of experience without knowing where you can get the best meal and a pint. On Friday’s it was always an early finish, then off to the pub for the afternoon. On this particular Friday, it was Two Meals for a Tenner at the Stoat and Ferret on Market Street.

After a trip to the bar, they took a quiet table by the window, away from the noise and activity. A frown briefly crossed Bob’s face as he checked his pockets. “I think I’ve forgotten me wallet again!” It was the same corny line he used every week. Pat shook his head and took a long swallow from his pint of Dirty Fingers Ale. “Don’t worry, it’s yer age, mate!”

After a few minutes, their Pie and Mash arrived, and for a short time, all conversation stopped.

Pat looked over at Bob’s emptying plate and waved his fork in Bob’s general direction. “Slow down, mate, what’s the rush? The bosses can’t touch us now. What could they ever do to us ‘Senior Señors’?”

Bob grinned and nodded at their nickname, but his mouth was too full to reply. For years, they had been the oldest lads on the building sites, and with their regular golfing holidays to Spain, the tag had suited them to a tee.

After their meals, and a quick trip to the Gents, Pat wanted them both to settle down for a long session on the pool table. Bob wasn’t listening – something outside had caught his attention. “Pat, look there! There’s some young ‘uns at the cab of that Cat excavator! Looks like they should be at school too, by the age of ‘em!”

Pat followed Bob’s gaze through the window at the nearby building site.
“Leave it Bob! We’ve finished now. Let’s have a game of pool.”

Bob reluctantly agreed and selected a new cue from the rack. He still couldn’t get used to them both being in retirement. Senior Señors, indeed.

This story was prompted by Sunday Photo Fiction October 12th 2014, hosted by Al Forbes. Click the logo for more details.

 To view other entries in this challenge, click the blue frog.