Hindsight
The skin coloured patch over his left eye gave him a sinister look. He peered through his one clear eye, outlined by the black arched eyebrow. His gait uneven and awkward as he took a few steps forward, he walked with his arms outstretched to give himself balance. An old black and white baseball cap sat firmly on his shaven head. His white, short-sleeved shirt crumpled and damp with perspiration stuck to his back.
He supported himself, by gripping the roof of the car, as he opened the door to climb into the passenger seat. His legs abandoned the messages sent to them and he fell face forward into the car, his arms not quick enough to hold his weight. He struggled to compose himself and strained to push his body into a position where he could pull himself upright once again. His face wet with sweat, he rested for a moment.
He saw his mother leaving the glass-fronted building. Straining with effort he arranged his limbs into a sitting position. She looked happy as she approached the car, unaware of his recent fall. She smiled at him and seated herself, squeezed his arm and started the engine. She was delighted to be taking him home. They drove in silence for a while, awkward with each of their thoughts. A motorbike overtook them on the dual carriageway; its deep growl of acceleration gave him butterflies in his stomach. He looked, as did his mother at the figure on the bike as it disappeared into the distance. The rider was wearing a crash helmet, their thoughts remained unspoken. He knew she was thinking the same thoughts. If only he had worn his on that fateful day.
by Barbara A. Rope
The skin coloured patch over his left eye gave him a sinister look. He peered through his one clear eye, outlined by the black arched eyebrow. His gait uneven and awkward as he took a few steps forward, he walked with his arms outstretched to give himself balance. An old black and white baseball cap sat firmly on his shaven head. His white, short-sleeved shirt crumpled and damp with perspiration stuck to his back.
He supported himself, by gripping the roof of the car, as he opened the door to climb into the passenger seat. His legs abandoned the messages sent to them and he fell face forward into the car, his arms not quick enough to hold his weight. He struggled to compose himself and strained to push his body into a position where he could pull himself upright once again. His face wet with sweat, he rested for a moment.
He saw his mother leaving the glass-fronted building. Straining with effort he arranged his limbs into a sitting position. She looked happy as she approached the car, unaware of his recent fall. She smiled at him and seated herself, squeezed his arm and started the engine. She was delighted to be taking him home. They drove in silence for a while, awkward with each of their thoughts. A motorbike overtook them on the dual carriageway; its deep growl of acceleration gave him butterflies in his stomach. He looked, as did his mother at the figure on the bike as it disappeared into the distance. The rider was wearing a crash helmet, their thoughts remained unspoken. He knew she was thinking the same thoughts. If only he had worn his on that fateful day.
by Barbara A. Rope
