Title: Little Johnny.
by Rb | in writing, fiction
The boy was sitting under the tree, innocent. He was playing with the tufts of fresh grass near his leather-clad feet, a smart coat on his lap. His shirt was stained with bits of earth and spilt orange juice. Streaks of bright paint were all over his face, across his forehead, his cheeks, near his mouth. He looked up, smiled, then closed his eyes. He could hear the birds chirping happily above him and smell the wild flowers he'll be picking for his mother on the way home. The cool breeze lovingly caressed the boy's face. He looked so serene, preoccupied, stuck in his own little world.
But then Night came and took it all away.
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