Friday 4 July 2014

The Boy Who Rescues Pigeons

I promised you a snippet so here it is.

He reached under the bed for the laptop. It felt strangely wrong for it to be in his room in the middle of the night, when darkness patrolled outside the window like an intruder, seeking a way into the deepest vestiges of his soul.

He stared at it for a moment without switching it on, willing himself to replace it under the bed and knowing he did not have the courage to do so. He couldn't know his father and not know him at the same time. He could not know his name, his identity, his face and leave it at that, not follow it up in any way. He was not brave enough to face the world alone after all!

He pressed the on button and watched the computer flick into life. Without conscious thought he googled how to contact his dad. Twitter seemed the most obvious and instant way since it was listed that his dad had at least two accounts there.

Speedily he signed up for the social media site and listed his details sketchily. It didn’t matter that he had no picture listed and nothing about himself, he wasn’t interested or intending to post tweets; the account was merely a means to an end.

He took a few minutes to investigate the site, seeing how it worked and how he could use it to achieve what he desired. There was a direct messaging service, where he could send a message to his dad’s account without releasing it to the general Twitter followers. He clicked on the button.

Two small rectangles popped up. In the first he typed his dad’s Twitter user name, bringing up the face which was becoming more familiar to him than his own. He moved the cursor to the next box. There was a number next to the box, 140, which he presumed stood for the amount of characters he would be allowed to use.

How could he say what he wanted in 140 characters? He doubted he would even be able to get the message out in 140 words let alone characters! And what was he to write? How should he begin? With some explanation about who he was? Too boring! His dad would probably not even bother to read further.

What if he said he liked his films? Surely that was something every actor liked to hear. But it reeked of a suck-up! He didn’t want to suck-up to him, he wanted him to know that he was his father!

He positioned his hands over the keyboard. He was over-thinking it. When he overthought anything it always turned out badly. Perhaps it was best to just go with impulse or gut reaction, whatever it was called. He typed.

‘Hi. You don’t know me. But you knew my mother, Anna Pertwee. I know that you will remember her even though it was a long time ago.’

 Poor Lucas ...he is in for a shock!

Happy Reading! 

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