Flash Fiction - Ravi

I went to a really great writing workshop today, and here's a 200 word flash character I managed to eke out.


The thing he wants is just to blend in, to be just another face in the crowd.  He wears the same bland checked Primark shirt, the same jeans and scuffed Converse trainers as every other boy in sixth form.  He carries the same beat-up wallet in his back pocket, and its worn outline has faded into the dark denim.

However, he is not the same.  He's not called Tyler, Jack or Fred.  No matter how quickly he weaves through the corridor, he will still hear the words "Paki" or "raghead" at least once a week.  They will always be suspicious, wondering what he's doing in their shops, on their streets, in their world.

Idiots.  The guys at school still haven't figured out that he's from Sri Lanka, not India or Pakistan.  His parents don't run a bloody kebab shop either.  Everyone in this part of Dorset assumes your parents own a curry house or they're some foreign GP who doesn't speak English.

You can't blend in if you are a different colour.  No matter what you smoke or how you say "innit" or how far down you pull your hoodie over your face, it's still going to be brown.


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