‘Hey, look at this.’ Gary waved the pistol. It had been in a trunk in granddad’s attic with a load of other World War Two stuff. ‘Pow! Pow!’ He aimed it at his pal Rory, imitating the sound of gunfire; just like the two ten-year-olds often did over at the park.
It might be 1982, but the war was still very real in the imagination of young boys. The English and Germans was a favourite game. The English always won. Well, they had in real life, hadn’t they. What a treasure trove. There was a khaki tunic and when Gary tried it on it came down to his knees. He perched a cap precariously on his head, tilting it so it didn’t fall over his eyes. Gary knew he looked every inch like a real soldier.
The gun weighed a ton. Gary knew nothing about guns. Not guns of today, nor guns of yesteryear. He had a plastic one that fired pellets; when you lost those you used bird food instead.
The English and Germans. Gary was the English; Rory the Germans. ‘Halt!’ Gary called, imitating the voice a soldier, ‘Stop or I’ll shoot.’
It took two hands for Gary to lift it but unsteady though he was, he aimed it at the German. ‘Die Hun!’ he taunted and mustering all his strength, he squeezed the trigger.
Gary’s mum was downstairs in the kitchen going through the cupboards. She stopped her rummaging for a moment when she heard the car backfire.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 