Short Story in Progress
Timothy McFarlane drowned on a Saturday. It was down at the creek where he and Kenny Stacc liked fishing on weekends, and Kenny was there when it happened but he didn’t want to speak about it; just pursed his lips and shook his head and stared with those great blue eyes of his until people murmured that it was better to leave a poor kid alone. He lost his best friend, after all. Bluey and Brownie, they called them, because their eyes were so striking - Tim’s bright and full of life, curious, fun; Kenny’s innocent and wide and frightened. They were even more frightened after the accident. He trembled, too, when he got nervous. Didn’t used to happen. You couldn’t blame him, though.
They’d had an argument a couple of days before. Something about a stray dog they found and both wanted to keep. Turned out the dog wasn’t stray after all - someone picked it up, resolving their questions, but still the boys seemed kind of bitter about it. In the end it didn’t even seem to be about that dog anymore, but rather a stubborn refusal to give in. Tim’s mother was sorry for Kenny, thought it was a shame the boys had been on poor terms so soon before Tim died, and she had him over for dinner after school most weeks because he reminded her of her own boy and she had a weighty feeling of obligation she couldn’t ignore. Now and then the blue eyes seemed too intense over the table. They bored right through her till she hated their innocence. She hated that he’d been there when it had happened and yet been unable to do anything. She hated the depth of their colour, their lack of soul and mischief that her son’s had possessed. But she had to have him there, because Tim had been her baby, and Kenny was all she had left of him.