FICTION: The Playground 1/1

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I have written a very short story inspired by a stunning picture created
by the inimitable artist X.  The story is titled "The Playground".  The
text is below for those who prefer the email format, but I prefer you go
to where both the story and the picture that inspired it can be found, at:

http://www.wordsmiths.net/MacGeorge/bystander.html

The usual disclaimers apply.

RATING: PG-13 for violence
ARCHIVE:  7th Dimension

For those of you who had received the more general notice, I am pleased
to announce that X has allowed the early posting of stories from her
spectacular zine, POV - Bystander Stories.  The zine incorporates her
wonderful artwork from several fandoms, including Highlander, Star Wars,
  Harry Potter, Mag 7 and The Phantom Menace.  A number of writers in
each fandom were asked to use the art work as inspiration to write a
short "bystander" story, and the zine was the result.  It instantly sold
out, with proceeds going to charity, and is no longer available in paper
copy.  If you purchased one, you are among the lucky ones who have a
work of art, as each zine was lovingly put together by X's own talented
hands.  Please note that the tales are from various fandoms and the
ratings vary for each individual story, from PG-13 to NC-17 (slash).

All of the stories and pictures from the zine can be found at:

http://www.tenebris.org/x_art/bystander_pov_splash.html

And now:

The Playground
a Bystander story
by MacGeorge

Tourist attractions are my favorite places.  Tired and distracted
parents herding their tired and distracted children.  Both youngsters
and adults are looking everywhere at once; there are plenty of people
milling around, and it usually only takes a moment.

A small hand fits into my palm.  Eager little eyes light up at the
prospect of a tasty treat from a nice man, and they are mine.  So soft,
so trusting.  Oh, they cry later, at least for a while, until I'm
finished with them.  That's the only real problem - they don't last very
long.  But today I had found a new place, a new playground, and another
soft, warm, wonderful child of my very own.

The day is perfect, bright and filled with sunshine.  I mill happily
among the gawking crowds, dressed anonymously in an old blue sweater, my
straw hat shadowing my face, and with my camera slung over my shoulder I
am the personification of the harmless tourist.  And oh, the little boy
is beautiful - innocent face, round cheeks, sparkling hazel eyes - a
younger version of the stone angels gazing beneficently on the
passersby.  The ideal moment arrives when the dark-haired mother moves
ahead to corral her wandering daughter back into the fold, and the
father gazes rapturously at the soaring gothic architecture.

The boy looks around for his mother and doesn't see her.  His eyes tear
up and his lower lip starts to quiver.  The moment has arrived, and I
move in, but another man standing nearby tucks his paper under his arm,
then turns and kneels, asking the child what is wrong.

His interference makes me angry.  He has no right!  "Excuse me, young
man, but I'll handle this," I interrupt.

He turns his head and looks up at me, his dark eyes warm and kind.  He
studies me for a few seconds though, and his face changes.  It is
subtle, just a hardening around the eyes, but I've learned to read
faces, you see.  You have to if you're going to say the right thing, to
be what people expect, because people believe what they want to believe,
see what they want to see.  This man seems to see a little more.

"Are you his father?" the man asks.

I smile my well-practiced 'kindly, harmless old man' smile.  "I'm his
uncle," I assure him in a smooth voice that has worked so many times
before.  "We just got separated."  I take my child's hand.  It's soft
and slightly wet where he had been wiping his tears.  He tugs, trying to
get away.  "Come on, Brian," I say brightly.  "Let's go find your
mother.  She's right over this way."

But a surprisingly strong grip circles my wrist.  "I'll help you find
her," the man insists with a cold smile, and he squeezes a little
harder.  One of his blunt, hard fingers digs in a little and hits a
nerve.  My hand goes numb and my fingers open automatically, reluctantly
releasing my prize.

The boy just stands there, blinking in confusion until the man sweeps
the child up into his arms, holding him high, and shouts.  "I have a
lost child here.  Does anyone know his parents?"  His voice carries
easily over the crowd.  Heads turn, and an answering cry from across the
square is heard.  The mother dashes to them in a clatter of well-worn
sandals. "Oh, Charlie, you bad boy!  I told you to stay close."  She
grabs the child, clutching him to her.  "Oh, thank you!" she gushes with
an embarrassed laugh.  The man with the dark discerning eyes and the
hard hands just nods and retreats, casting a cold look in my direction.

I quickly move away and disappear into the crowd.  I find a concealing
doorway and step back into the shadows.  My heart hammers in my chest
from both anger and fear.  How dare he?  That child was mine!

I breathe deeply for a moment, gathering my wits about me, thinking
about other places I could go, other likely sources of...but then my
heart lurches as a heavy hand squeezes my shoulder and pulls me farther
into the darkness.  A soft, malevolent voice whispers in my ear.  "I see
you're a man who likes little boys."

I try to turn around, but the hand stops me and I feel cold, smooth
metal against my throat.  "Been doing this for a while, no doubt," the
cultured voice observes in the same, sibilant whisper.  "You've got the
routine down pat."

"I...I...I didn't mean anything by it!  I just was going to take him to
his mother.  I swear!"  The door behind us opens and I'm backed into a
service hallway that smells of moldy concrete and unwashed toilets.

"Really?" the voice asks with a hint of dry amusement.  "How very
thoughtful of you."  The knife moves so fast I'm not really aware of any
pain, but I can't seem to get enough air to breathe.  Then there is
blood spilling down the front of my blue sweater like a river.  My hat
tumbles to the floor and I stagger, one hand clutched to my throat in a
vain effort to stem the streaming tide of red.

"Methos!" a voice shouts, and footsteps ring against the stone.  I turn,
hoping for rescue. It's the man with the hard hands. The dim hallway is
getting even darker, and my knees start to buckle.  I reach out to him
and try to cry for help but only manage a choked gurgling noise.

"My God, what have you done?  You can't just..."

But I don't hear the rest.

   ~ finis ~

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