Today's flash fiction is set in Woolwich, in south-east London. Rather than have another maritime-themed story (after Kevin and Jack's exploits and our adventure with Ventian tides yesterday), I decided to move from the Woolwich dockyard to Woolwich Arsenal, close to the site of the Royal Arsenal ammunitions factory from 1805 until the 1970s. In peacetime, the facility built steam locomatives and railway wagons, and ironically spent a good deal of World War II empty due to ariel bombardment during the Blitz.
Woolwich Arsenal, November 1940
Tommy lay on top of an old laboratory work bench, a cigarette clamped between his lips.
"Ain't nothing like a good smoke, is there?" he said, with an air of great satisfaction. Alfie rolled his eyes. Tommy had pinched the fag from their dad that morning, yet he was talking like he had a source on the black market. Even their dad could only get a few smokes a week, and there would be hell to pay when he found this one was missing. He said as much to Tommy.
"Oh, stop being such an old woman. . ." Tommy said, taking a deep drag.
"We should go," Alfie said. "This place is a target, we should get home."
"Where is home?" Tommy sneered.
"Back to the Tube, then."
"Oh, shut up. We have plenty of time to get back."
The sound of an air-raid siren rent the air.
Tommy's cigarette fell to the floor as he and Alfie scrambled for the exit.
To read the rest of my A-Z flash fiction world tour, click on the tag below this post. Thanks for visiting!