Friday Fictioneers 13/3/2015

photo by Sandra Cook

Silvery grass now crisp underfoot in the morning air. Hot clouds of breath from the boy at my side.

With no overcoat, this child, unshod and raggedy, appears a plaything too old, worn, forgotten.

I glance down. Soon, all will be finished.

Walking further, the boy stumbles, his toe hits a rock. I hear the anguish escape his blue lips. He whimpers.

Underneath matted hair, a single tear falls.

We reach the glassy edge of the stream.

He does not struggle as I plunge his head into the frigid water.

His life trickling away in its flow.

It is done.