(Photo copyright: Al Forbes)
Jean-Pierre lined a 30-quart pot with a small pillow and placed it on his head. He looked ridiculous, but the sky was falling and he had to get to the bomb shelter.
As he stepped outside, a lagging German bomber let loose its parting shot. The buildings around him exploded like eel in a frying pan. Jean-Pierre’s head gear shielded him from flying debris as a scowling bust of Apollo was torn from l’hôtel de ville and thrown to his feet. He picked it up and ran. A souvenir of hell, he thought, if either of us survives Armageddon.
(Written for Friday Fictioneers, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. November 8, 2013.)