He plays dead, face down in the school playground as the cackling witch circles above, black cloak billowing behind her.
But suddenly she’s beside him, jabbing him with her broomstick, and his screams wake his father.
Gentle hands lift, cuddle, reassure.
It was a nightmare – it’s over now, son.
Sixty years later he’s playing dead on the shopping mall floor, gazing into the sightless eyes of a young woman.
The cackling of AK-47’s pauses once more.
Footsteps… then another ‘broomstick’ jabs him in the back, making him gasp.
And he hears his father’s distant voice.
It’s over now, son.
The Friday Fictioneers spread their wings once more under the graceful tutelage of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Apologies for another grim story this week, but in the skies above where I live, (close to several RAF bases), there’s the constant drone of Tornados these days, and it’s difficult to steer away from darker thoughts. Must try harder…