Her beautiful boy is gone.
Abandoning the half full trolley, she dashes to the end of the aisle, confusion blossoming into panic. It’s deserted except for an elderly woman staring at a fridge full of colourful yoghurt pots.
Running, her head swivels like a weather vane on a blustery day, calling his name. ‘John! John, darling!’
She bumps through a checkout queue, exiting onto a busy pavement. There are people everywhere, all shapes and sizes; the street a blur of movement.
‘Are you okay, Miss?’
A stomach roll of cold dread. ‘He’s gone.’
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.
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