Jubilant in the happiness freedom brings, she crossed the border into France. All she had in her possessions were the clothes she was dressed in, and a carrier bag full of home. A picture frame, a cuddly toy, and a ray of hope.

‘I don’t know where my parents are,’ he said, ‘but they said I would be safe here.’

‘You need to wait here, we need to take your name.’

‘Elijah, I’m so tired.’

‘I bet you are, let’s find you somewhere to rest.’

Row upon row of tents, and he sat down outside one of them. Other families, some with their mum and dad, some like him, separated from their parents. It wasn’t home, but it looked dry, and he would be safe from the bombing.

They left him, but his stomach rumbled like the tanks, which rolled into his home town. A woman, wearing only a shawl, sat next to him, and offered a piece of bread, with a thin slice of cheese.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

Published by writerravenclaw

I am a fifty something mother of two grown up children, and one beautiful grandchild. I have been married for nearly thirty-four years. My first book was published ten years ago. I wrote my book Sticks and Stones because of my experience of being bullied at school.

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