The World in Small Hands

From a small desk in the middle of the Welsh countryside, a boy controlled the fate of the world. He did so amongst old train tracks, surrounded on all sides by rich grasslands that were offset by the waste dump and the barbed wire fence separating the two. Pylons extended from his desk in an infinite line, as though whichever direction a person ran in they’d always end up back in the same place. He was the centrifuge around which the town spun.

   The boy examined the photographs on the table, fingers sticky with orange juice. The cardboard box he was using as a hat provided ample shade from the sun, but the mouse mask on his face did little to deflect the harsh glare on the images. 

   He was trying to decide who would die first. In the photograph nearest to him, a group of children spilt out of an upper floor window.  One brave soul dangled from the window ledge like a monkey, a few of her peers intent on pushing her further from it. The rest laughed at something out of sight, and the boy, curious as to what that thing was, climbed inside the photograph.

He emerged into an overcast housing estate, shaking off the black and white tones of the picture as he passed through its frame. There were people everywhere; he saw the children from the window, looking beyond him to a rival group of kids posed for battle in the street below. They held a white sheet between them, suspended on broom handles and drain pipes. It was unclear whether this was a surrender or an attack, but their actions certainly indicated the latter. In lieu of actual weapons, the teams were hurling bricks and harsh words at each other, making use of the debris around them. The boy had to duck as a rock whizzed past his ear, and one of the kids asked if he wanted to join the fight. The boy politely declined and wandered off to find the other subjects of his photographs.

   He recognised a woman with light hair dragging a sofa across the cobblestoned street. The wheels made a nasty grating sound as they passed over the gravel, and with each tug the woman became progressively redder. She stopped and looked desperately for someone to help her. But the estate was full of children, playing atop burnt out cars and setting things on fire and jumping off rooves. There was a boy of no more than twelve running his own target practice, shooting at a wall with a rifle at his shoulder whilst a small girl amused herself in the dirt nearby. A teenager watched the proceedings from a second floor window but did little to indicate that he would be willing to help the woman. Sighing, she continued along the road.

   The boy found the whole place so deplorable that he did not have the heart to kill anyone. It seemed that their circumstances would be enough; their suffering would be enough. As he passed each little group, their heads turned to watch him, and for a moment, the boy really was no more than a boy.