that saddest boy – a short story

He was crying and felt shame. His face was dirty and his hat didn’t hide the dirt or tears. Cars drove slowly in the parking lot and he knew they saw. He was small and he thought they’d wonder why he was alone. It was hot and he didn’t want to cry.

The Salvation Army drop box was beaten and the white paint was chipped badly. His throat hurt. He wiped his eyes. Tears came again and his nose filled too. He tried to hold back, but his chest heaved and he stopped while he cried openly; without insult to others as they watched.

The boy carried a laundry sack. The sack was full. In it were contents important to him though there wasn’t any way for him to express how important and the tears tried but weren’t enough.

He pushed the sack into the opening and felt them watching from their cars. His shoulders heaved with his shaking while he tried the best he could to push the hurt down again. His nose had run so badly that mucus hung from him. Finally, he felt the content of the sack form to the opening. He listened as they slid to their new home.

It’s nothing really, he thought.  She didn’t know.

Switch – Odd Walking Thoughts

The blackout is replaced by images and some we know.  They are everything.  A man with sad eyes watches and we push back because they make us sad.  A young girl dances in a field with a yellow flower and her dress is winding around her body. There’s dust and it switches.  A boy is kneeling.  He’s holding a frog and pushing it to his ear waiting for the frog to croak. The blackness is back because we wish to not think, but we cannot, and it continues. We’re sweeping a back room.  A women smiles and she knows something and we want to know what she’s thinking.

His Mother Was Out – A Random Short Story

His Mother Was Out –  A Short Story written and solely owned by M. Taggart.  Fiction.

Soap suds splashed onto his forearm as he scrubbed. Some reached his mouth and he could taste his dinner.  In his mind he heard his mother say, ‘Not so hard.’  He scrubbed harder, with suds now reaching his forehead.

“A man will always help.” His mother said to him often.

His mother wasn’t home.  She’d gone out.

“A man will always provide.”  She’d told him.

His mother didn’t make dinner, he did. He cleaned the table, counter, and vacuumed the hallway.  He washed his mother’s clothes this morning because she’d slept in again. And now he was cleaning the glass casserole dish.

Foam was torn from the water and cast above his head.  He looked blankly at the door, should he lock it?  Most nights she didn’t come home until three and often not at all. The noise of nothing was all around him, awakening him slightly, while alone in their small apartment.

“A man will take care of her.  A real man would.  Be a real man.”  His mother had repeatedly said to him.

He felt he could eat his way through the dish without care. Picking up the dish, he looked at it in disbelief.  There’s nothing here, he thought.  He felt it rising, starting from his stomach, up through his heart, anger came.

The noise from the shattering comforted him. He saw shards of glass, from within his ankles and feet, trying to look back at him in awe. He watched as the blood ran from him, then through his toes, and onto the floor. Rocking back and forth on his heels, he enjoyed the warm swimming fluid.  It was here. It was now.

His mother was out.