by James Everington
Copyright 2011 James Everington
Cover Image copyright Dawid Zagorski
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as author of the work
It's strange, when I look back on it, that on a day we were worried would be boring, everything changed. It was towards the end of a long, drowsy summer, monotonous with heat and the lack of wind. I still have the nightmares about that day and what followed, when I awake into blackness, and the sheets that I’ve pushed to my feet seem like they’re reaching to drag me down. It’s been twenty years, and still the dreams; maybe writing this will stop them. I don’t want to dream any longer about the day when Mark Galloway said we should cross the fields to the old air raid shelter.