3 responses to “Microcosms 52”

1. 

   Alva Holland

   30 December 2016

   Have you somehow tapped into my secret fears and found photo prompts to match, Geoff Holme?
   Back later with some words once I’ve jump-started my blood-flow.

   Reply
2. 

   Geoff

   30 December 2016

   Protect and Survive
   300 words. Geoff Le Pard
   Norman thought of himself as meticulous; Daphne thought him slow. He started many jobs always intending completion. Rarely did it happen. However the construction of an air-raid shelter was one project Daphne determined Norman would finish.
   Norman’s problem was a Victorian urge to over-engineer. The neighbours dug a simple pit which they covered in corrugated iron. Norman hunted out precious bricks, while assessing ground conditions and the best prospect – east-facing he thought.
   Progress was slow. Bombing raids came and went. Daphne and the boys sheltered with the neighbours. Meanwhile Norman pottered and pointed and pontificated.
   The boys joined up and still Norman built. VE Day passed in a blur for Daphne as she imbibed more oak leaf wine than was recommended.
   When she returned, as the rain blew away, Norman was waiting. ‘It’s done.’ At the top of the steps, he added, ‘Pity it’s over really.’
   Maybe it was the worry about her boys, off to the Far East, maybe it was the year’s of using the neighbours, maybe it was just the drink but Daphne saw red. She ran at Norman’s back gurgling incoherently and pushed.
   The combination of wet steps and the force exerted sent Norman tumbling. He lay inside the door, clearly dead.
   Daphne sighed. She made herself tea and then some concrete. In a surprisingly quick time she bricked up the entrance and begun filling in the steps with soil. If anyone asked about Norman she said, ‘He’s decided on a fresh start.’
   No one questioned Daphne. When, 60 years later the shelter was opened, none of the family still lived. The dead man was assumed to be a vagrant.
   Indeed it wasn’t the body that caused the stir but Norman’s magnificent shelter. In death, at least his precise handiwork had been appreciated.

   Reply
3. 

   steve lodge

   3 January 2017

   Steve Lodge
   @steveweave71
   300 words

   Ah Yes, But A Lot Of It’s Rubbish, You Know.

   All in all, a holiday that promised much, failed.

   Dad borrowed a car and a caravan from a mate and we headed cross-country from London to North Wales. Rhyl Llandudno. Sounded like a football team.

   Car and caravan failed to make it up a hill near Banbury. Blocked the whole road, but nice people turned the car around so Dad could jump-start it going downhill and then go back for the caravan.

   With an iffy car, Plan B was the east coast. We found a site and a geezer to fix a flat tyre on the caravan. We were running out of holiday and our parents were on the edge of their tempers. Least from here if it all went tits-up, we could get a train back to London.

   We’d had kippers for tea in the caravan. Dad was reading a local paper he’d found.

   Suddenly he smiled. “Says here there’s a football match tonight in Scareby, down the road. Local league, nothing posh. Playing the Third Rifles. I’ll take the boy.”

   Mum obliged, bless her. “Off you go. I’ll take Jacqui to the site club bingo. She’ll be my lucky charm, won’tcha, darling?”

   Scareby FC was a deserted field. We waited at the top of the steps that led to the changing rooms.

   “Players’ll be out soon,” Dad was confident. “Paper said kickoff is 7.”

   “Bit basic, innit?”

   “It ain’t Wembley.” Dad agreed. “I tell you, son, I don’t fancy that drive back to London tomorrow. You wait till I see that Sid.”

   “Help you, sirs?” A farmer turned up behind us.

   We didn’t understand his accent but I took a punt “We’re here for the football.”

   “Orrr. Last week, sirs.” He replied.

   Dad muttered as we walked off. “That must’ve been an old paper I found. Sod it.”

   Reply

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