The boy stared up at his mother’s face as she slowly gathered up the firewood and arranged them together. It seemed a normal thing to be doing on a camping trip, yet the ar had the atmosphere of the calm before the storm, or perhaps the mere wait in bated breath when a train wreck was in motion.
She looked up, and down again. Arranged the wood once more.
She held up a matchstick and lit the firewood. The campfire cracked and growled between them.
“My Dad . . .”
“Hm? What about him?”
“I never knew him.”
“Yes dear.” Quiet. Not wanting to say more.
The boy would not give up. “Do we have pictures?”
She looked away. “No pictures,” she said then added, “Stolen. There was a burglar . . .”
Of course. There was a burglar. Last time, there was a fire, but she seemed to have forgotten that. And before that, they were accidentally binned.
The boy wondered if his mother even knew who his father was. But she was looking away, into the forest.
Not now, then. Maybe next time, she would make a more convincing story. Maybe she would tell the truth . . .
The fire cracked and growled between them.
W/N: This little bit of writing had been written down in my notebook for quite a while, but I couldn’t bear to show it to anyone. For it’s inspired–in a very loose sense of the word–it has none of the charm and command over words thehobbler has. She uses few sentences and fewer descriptions to make scenes of life that has emotions running high. She effectively makes everything she writes reader territory and probably goes sitting in front of the screen, “Go crazy with this” or maybe that’s just my overactive imagination (seriously, who imagines flying larynxes when somebody shouts, “My throat is gone.”) but I wouldn’t know. Anyone reading my blog, go over to hers and weep your heart out over her most recent post, Writing the good, the bad and the ugly.
Also, compliments and/or crying over my story makes me flail happily and constructive criticism is highly appreciated.