A little later than usual, here is my effort for Friday Fictioneers this week. A big thank you to the lovely Renee Heath for the photograph this week and to Rochelle for all the time and effort she devotes to FF - we are all truly grateful. Bow, curtsey…
Word Count: 100
“Stop, stop. Stop!”
My son tightens his grip, his little nails dig into my hand.
“What’s the matter Sam, whatever’s wrong?”
I pick him up. His face is ashen. Two perfectly shaped teardrops hover in the corners of his brilliant blue eyes, threatening to spill over any moment.
I hold him tight.
“What is it? Tell me what’s wrong. Do you have a pain? Just tell me.”
Removing one arm from around my neck and a wet cheek from mine, he points at the fire hydrant and, in the smallest voice, whispers
“There’s a Dalek and I don’t like him.”
By way of explanation…
We don’t have fire hydrants in the UK like the ones in the photograph.
In the mid-eighties we made our first visit to America. My husband is a film buff and a Western fanatic; the thought that he could see Monument Valley and walk in the steps of John Wayne had a lot to do with planning our vacation. In the event we never got to Monument Valley, but did see some amazing and wonderful places on that first trip.
During the stopover in San Francisco, which was much cooler than the weather we had left behind in Los Angeles, our youngest son complained that his legs were cold. My husband and elder son went off to find a shop where we could get him some trousers instead of the shorts we had with us, and we trailed somewhere behind. I think we were approaching Union Square when the incident I have written about happened.
A new series of Dr Who had just been screened at home and while my eldest loved it, my younger son and I would hide behind the sofa when there was a scene with the Daleks. They could be pretty scary.