Boys at the Cracked Window

A prose sketch of a fairly ordinary incident that occurs on a rainy night. ^_*

The homeless boy stood in the rain, staring through the cracked window, a broken mirror that showed a dying, lost reflection. He watched the mayor’s son, sitting at the dinner table with his father, a large, pompous man with a well-groomed moustache and dark gelled locks, and his mother, a fragile, prim lady who made up for her unimpressive figure with a regal demeanour and glossy lip stick that smelt magically delicious, like plump cherries on a rich black forest cake.

As he gazed at the three of them laughing together over dinner, the boy pressed his soiled little finger tips on the wet window pane, frowning as his envy welled up inside him like a green balloon. The green balloon he had once held when he was with his family in the market place.

It was a day that constantly harassed his reluctant memory. The warm afternoon sunlight on the flowers, the bright drapes of the stalls, the laughter of the town, his own happiness the surrounded him as he tottered innocently beside his parents and his older sister, greeted and loved by all. But when the soldiers, having not received sufficient taxes, set a farmer’s store alight, terror smothered the townsfolk in flames. They began to scurry back and forth. People left his side, fleeing in vain for their lives, lost. The boy felt his screams vanish in the searing heat. As he ran, he lost grip of the green balloon the disappeared, leaving him and the town to slip into the oblivion as it searched for a better fortune elsewhere. Everyone he loved, his mother, his father, his sister, the little girl down the street, had vanished in the flames.

As he recalled, drops of rain fell down the boy’s cheeks but the heat of the fire still lingered in his miserable heart. His frown became graver.

At that moment, the mayor’s son turned his gaze to him, his bright, clear blue eyes staring straight into the dirt-brown wretchedness of the other’s. The homeless boy immediately withdrew his fingers from the glass and jumped back. Yet he did not duck or scurry away for the feeling was not one of fear �" more the sort you would get if someone gave you an odd look or a strange handshake �" When they said “nice to meet you” but actually meant otherwise or preferred to ask an interesting question like “why are you here?” or “want to play a game?” or something of the like. The homeless boy began to ponder over these things as he continued gazing, his vision blurred by the mist on the cracked window pane.

Finally, the rain began pouring even harder. He averted his gaze and darted away.

Reviews

[Gretchen Clarke]

D'aw, the poor little boy... :'(
This has potential to be a full book (pleasepleasepleasedomakeitabookIwanttoreadmoreaboutthepoorlittleboy!) - it really does! This is going on my Favorites List!
Keep up the great work!