It’s not a hard slap; its impact lies in surprise … and speed of delivery.
For both of us.
His flushed little face crumples, bottom lip jutting as tears spill through squeezed eyelids.
Panic and the truck that could have killed him pass, and I’m instantly, agonisingly contrite. I hug him, feeling his rigid, rebellious little body straining away.
His distress escalates into pitiful howling, as I hold his tear-stained face close to mine.
“I told you… never, ever leave the pavement without looking.”
We continue hand-in-hand towards school, though in truth we both have learned the lesson for today.
It’s that time of the week again, and Friday Fictioneers are flexing quills, filling their inkwells, chewing their pencils or cleaning the crumbs off their keyboards. Our invigilator, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, patrols the aisles between our desks, ready to rap a knuckle or two if necessary. “You may turn your papers over and commence…”