George was on the move. The sixteen-year-old reckoned he had outgrown the tiny hamlet. He walked briskly down the driveway. The summer was broiling and he wore only snug green cotton shorts, a matching shirt and leather sandals.
The hamlet was cut off and there was no public transport. A special bus took him to the boys’ grammar in the morning and brought him home in the afternoon. He spent his time alone in his bedroom.
The new Beatles LP was behind it. A girl leaves home, leaving a note she hoped would say more. George had left no such letter. His head was full of fog. He didn’t know why he needed to leave, just that he must go.
George did have the concept of a plan. He would walk a couple of miles to the main road and then he had a vague idea to head west to Bristol. He had once visited the city with his mother to get new shoes for school.
The heat was dazzling; he wished he had brought a hat. Perspiration stuck his clothes to the contours of his body. Dream-like, the song nibbled away in his head as he stumbled on. He didn’t see the van coming down the lane; but the driver saw George. ‘Oi, oi, matey,’ he called cheerfully. ‘Can I take you some place?’ He opened the passenger door and George, startled into consciousness, fell in.
Distracted by sun-tanned hairless thighs; the driver released the clutch and jerked forward.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 