Keep the home fires burning; that was what the troops had sung in the Great War. And she does, never going out without a carnival glass lamp switched on to welcome her home, its warped, lead-lined shapes throwing up a kaleidoscope of shapes against the wallpaper.
Locking the front door behind her, she starts the Morris and lets it tick over, still glancing through her front window at the bright, coloured glass. The blackout is still in force, of course, but no German bomber is going to release its cargo based upon seeing a carnival glass lamp from twenty-thousand feet. She pulls away from her front door, the gravel crunching beneath the Morris’s thin tyres.

The blackout has benefits, of course. There are fewer cars on the road, for one. The claustrophobic, eyes down and just get on with it attitude of the war has made people insular. It is as though by drawing their thick curtains they can shut out the fighting itself. With all of the attention on Britain’s southern coast or on the U-boats hunting the Atlantic convoys, no-one pays any attention to certain…occurrences right here at home. No-one has the mental fortitude to piece things together.
The final approach to the house has to be walked, of course. She rolls her feet as she approaches, scotch tape in one hand and a ball point hammer in the other. The house is blanketed in silence and darkness, smothered by them. There is no shifting of bedsprings when she runs the scotch tape along the stained glass in the front door, no hitching of breath in uneasy slumber. The occupants are blacked out, smothered in greys and blues.
A crack, and the coloured glass comes away in her hand with minimal fuss – the scotch tape. A warm, butter yellow – this will make a lovely addition to her collection. Reaching through the gap, she eases the latch up. Still, there is no sound from within. The hammer is a comforting weight in her hand. Searchlights pierce the gloom overhead as she pulls the door to behind her.
Thanks for reading folks. Recent short stories include ‘The Kinmount Straight‘ and ‘The Clacks‘.
Matthew Richardson is a writer of short stories. His work has featured in Gold Dust magazine, Literally Stories, Close to the Bone, McStorytellers, Penny Shorts, Soft Cartel, Whatever Keeps the Lights On, Flashback Fiction, Cafelit, Best MicroFiction 2021, Writer’s Egg, Idle Ink, The Wild Word, Down in the Dirt, and Shooter magazine. He has a Professional Doctorate in Education. Matthew blogs at www.matthewjrichardson.com.
That was an interesting story, Matthew. Wicked woman, I’m assuming…
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You assume correct Chris! Up to no good…
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Wonderfully atmospheric piece, Matthew.
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Thanks so much Chris.
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My pleasure
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wnderful, Matthew; you recreated the atmosphere of these times superbly —
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Thanks John. I do like me a historical one.
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Now that sir was very imagematic! I loved the description of the German bomber at 20,000 feet unloading its bomb on a Tiffany lamp. Thank for the pick me up – just getting over a bout of flu so this was a great way to start my normal madness again. Cheers Mate.
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Hope your flu was shortlived, Christopher. Thanks so much for your kind words as always!
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You certainly do conjure the mood, Matthew. I found myself thinking: “Oh no! Why couldn’t she have just stolen the damn glass and been done with it?!
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Haha yes there was definitely an element of gratuitousness in her actions!
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