Johney's Bite Sized Fictions

Good morning,

Today I'm getting back on the horse after a lengthy hiatus and committing myself once again to writing. It is my passion, it's likely what I'm best at, and it brings me peace and joy.

In saying that, let's get on with it!

Presenting

A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words

This week's prompt is the following image:

Describe what you see

A distracted young boy. He is healthy and well dressed, hinting to a home environment where his physical needs are met. In contrast, his expression appears distracted and vacant. It suggests feelings of loneliness, rumination, and emotional abandonment. He might be watching something that makes him sad, or that brings those feelings to the surface.

Describe how you feel

Upon reflecting on the photo I feel somewhat exposed. Vulnerable. As though that boy could be my own son. It makes me question myself: that perhaps I may be neglecting his emotional needs more-so than his physical ones. It makes me feel guilty, for things I have not done. I love my son. Even so, it makes me intensely self reflective as a father. I do not want my son to feel abandoned.

The Boy that Was

I'm in an office. I'm cold and hungry. This chair is too big. This is a grown-ups chair. This is a grown-ups room... definitely not for kids. I can't see over the desk in front of me. I don't want to see. There's a man there, and he's looking at me. I'm scared. I'm cold, I'm hungry, and I'm scared.

"Jack. It's okay, Jack."

His voice sounds like dads'. It's the same voice he uses after he yells at mum. When he knows I've been watching.

"Can you look at me, jack?"

I don't. That's what dad says. I look at my hands, hiding my eyes with me hair. I fidget. I try to stay still, but I'm cold. I'm cold and I'm hungry. Not answering grown-ups is bad. Dad hates it. Dad smacks me when I don't answer him. He always smacks me. I try to speak. Nothing comes out.

I'm in so much trouble.

"By God, you're shivering."

The man stands, his chair scraping on the tiles. He's walking toward me. I start crying. I curl up as small as I can on the big chair. He's close to me now, so close I can smell him. It's... it's nice. Different to dad. I watch him through my hair and the tears streaming from my eyes. He's older than dad. Fatter too. His hands are so big.

He moves suddenly, and I flinch expecting a smack.. but it doesn't come? Instead he wraps something around me. A coat. It's warm. So warm. It smells a bit like cigarettes, which reminds me of mum. I wrap it around me as tightly as I can.

"No one is going to hurt you, Jack. You're safe now."

A gigantic hand rests on my shoulder. But.. it's not heavy. It's light, and it doesn't hurt.

The man moves in front of me, he's so tall he blocks out the light, then he kneels. He lowers himself until we're face to face.

"You've been through a lot, mate. The whole town has been looking for you. People who love you. People who care about you."

He tries to look at my eyes, but I don't let him.

"You don't have to talk, mate."

I stay silent, still expecting a smack. Dad always smacks. Then he does something I don't expect.

He smiles like pop used to. That same way when we would go to visit.

I relax a little.

"Come on. Let's get some food into you."

By: Simon Tonkin.