Frankie looked every minute of his
seventeen years on Earth. Cotton wool hung low from a pulled seam at
his crotch and the plastic resin of his eyes had taken on the dull,
foggy look of a bear twice his age. An amateurish attempt to repack
some stuffing that had escaped from the side of his neck had left him
with a permanent kink there; his chin pulled to the right and low to
his sunken chest. It made him look suspicious and a little
circumspect and not at all willing to sit quietly for a tea party or to accompany a little boy or girl to their first sleepover. Frankie
looked a fright.
He relaxed his shoulders a bit, which allowed him to lift his head enough to see the road that lay before him.
Although he would have guessed that he’d walked at least ten miles, he could still plainly see the red shingled roof of his house just over the rose bushes. Frankie recognized that the fact that he made it this far had been something of a miracle. He inhaled deeply and could smell the strong mothball scent that clung to him. “Boy oh boy! Is it breakfast already?” His mournful expression was not matched by any of the eight pre-recorded sentences on offer in his mechanical voice box. He struggled to express himself in most situations. He thought about the events of the night before, and the little girl whose plight had compelled him to wander out in search of help. He wondered if he'd be able to convince anyone to follow him back to the house with the red roof, and to the family inside. Frankie shook his head slowly, allowing his fears to show, if just for just a moment.
He lifted his chin and pressed on, shuffling his filthy, frayed feet as he walked. “Boy oh boy,” Frankie sighed again, “Is it breakfast already?”
©Tom Dougherty 2019.
He relaxed his shoulders a bit, which allowed him to lift his head enough to see the road that lay before him.
Although he would have guessed that he’d walked at least ten miles, he could still plainly see the red shingled roof of his house just over the rose bushes. Frankie recognized that the fact that he made it this far had been something of a miracle. He inhaled deeply and could smell the strong mothball scent that clung to him. “Boy oh boy! Is it breakfast already?” His mournful expression was not matched by any of the eight pre-recorded sentences on offer in his mechanical voice box. He struggled to express himself in most situations. He thought about the events of the night before, and the little girl whose plight had compelled him to wander out in search of help. He wondered if he'd be able to convince anyone to follow him back to the house with the red roof, and to the family inside. Frankie shook his head slowly, allowing his fears to show, if just for just a moment.
He lifted his chin and pressed on, shuffling his filthy, frayed feet as he walked. “Boy oh boy,” Frankie sighed again, “Is it breakfast already?”
©Tom Dougherty 2019.
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