The latest Writing Slam, With all correct apologies to the correct people. We had 8 minutes this time to write as much as we could on the random topic of Blankets.
Tattered. Always tattered.
Mary had always felt sorry for Blanket. What a horrible name that was, Blanket. Whoever named this kid had been a real, well as Mary’s mother put it, a real so-and-so. Sure, Mary had tried to talk to this boy when he first came to class, mysteriously appearing one day, his other siblings elsewhere in the school. As Mary’s mother said, just more victims of the welfare system. Adopted eventually after being rummaged from place to place, forgotten, and tattered.
Where did he come from originally? The adults seemed to know, but wouldn’t say. Mary’s mother certainly did know, but had never let it slip. This only hurt the boy’s chances further, strange and mysterious was a dangerous combination.
But still, Mary always thought of the poor boy, slightly younger than herself, as tattered. He always came off as distant, as if he was staring into space. Never really there, always alone. Just uncertain of who he was and where he came from, always just waiting to drift off again into his own personal Neverland.