Tell A Tale in 500 Words

Fight the good Fight By stephanie taylor

It was a Wednesday when it happened nothing ever happens on a Wednesday but it did this day. It was around eleven o clock nothing ever happens around eleven o clock but it did this day .I stared at the radio were the announcement had just been made the pink 1950,s radio looking out of place in the modern black and white kitchen. My name is Martin nothing ever happens to Martin but it did this day. I grabbed a pen and paper and scrawled the address/details on the back of an envelope just a bog standard envelope.

Sitting in my mates Daz,s car I don't drive we were on the way to the site, neither had ever done anything like this before it was if our whole lives hinged on this moment. Daz made an unannounced stop in a pile of mud and that was it. There were police, environmentalists , historical bods, nosey members of the public and representatives from the energy company, a spokesman the cowards had sent a spokesman this meant so little to them. Why is it so important l hear you ask ? so I will tell you .Daz and me belong to a historical society on this green and pleasant land there has been discovered Roman ruins ! a mini village a modern day Atlantics , but the energy company boo, hiss, pantomimes theatricals the team who discovered the antiquities haven't discovered if they are actually Roman there in lies the problem. Court battles, disputes, chaos ensues. The line of people being held back by the police is chopping at the bit, the police look fed up the energy company rep smug and the local news team look in seventh heaven.

All my life l have lived in the shadows , all my life I have put up and shut up, well not any more, I push pass Daz , the police, even till I reach the blond reporter with the news crew. A tried grey policeman runs after me he misses I dodge a bullet , I am on fire yeah baby!.Shaunzy ask me for local opinion I give it to her and then I tell the prime minster down the lens of a camera to not destroy this great country this green land . this is my home their home it is full of history our history and we want it kept that way. What will happen to our rich historical heritage? it will become no more than a building site my beloved data lost lost! . at this point I am rudely interrupted by mr plod with his crew take me with both hands I struggle flap my arms about and fall in the mud I resemble a demented seagull. The police van smells of sweat. As I sit in the cold cell I gleam comes into my eye I wonder if I make it to news at ten.

The End

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