Creative Writing / Flash Fiction / 2


He ducked as the plate smashed against the wall behind him. A warm welcome, he thought, as he hurried from the door to the kitchen. The children were at it again. Throwing crockery at each other, thinking it to be “fun”. They were lucky their aims had always missed. Wrong aim this time…one he missed by a second. He didn’t think it was his responsibility to stop them….not anymore. How could it be? His mother was always in the room upstairs, crying and starving herself to death, oblivious to all that was happening downstairs. His father had left home a week ago, and after initial efforts, even the children had stopped trying to make her come down. Now he just shouted at the children who didn’t listen, ducked from yet another airborne plate, grabbed a can of Coke from the refrigerator, went to his room and shut himself in.


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