George was camping, and went out bushwalking, when Thugface grabbed him by the shirt, yanked out his insulin pump and hurled it in the creek.
“Who’s the smart one now, geek freak?”
George flinched as kick, after kick sank into his red hair and blood gushed everywhere.
“You’re going to die…”
George knew it too. He wasn’t made to fight, and out here it didn’t matter how well he went on his algebra test. That wasn’t going to save his life. Yet, he did know how to tell a story, and scratched his attackers.
Footsteps approached. The sound of hope…
The more I worked on this story, I was reminded of the horrific murder of two year old James Bulger by a pair of ten year old boys back in 1992. I abhor violence, but we ignore it at our peril. We need to fight back any way we can and for me that means the pen, which I’ve got to believe is mightier than the sword.
This has been another contribution to Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wishoff Fields PHOTO PROMPT © Karen Rawson