Standing alone.

You're so kind, Kirsten! You always make me smile
I'm glad you liked it and thanks for reviewing. Will return the favour as soon as possible.

I is here to do a terrible review

Standing alone

Tommy liked to stand alone. When no one was watching, he’d pull a photograph from his pocket; it was rumpled and creased from his constant folding and unfolding, and when he held it to his face, it smelled of tobacco. The photograph possessed the face of a woman, but to everyone but Tommy1 that face would have been faceless. Not that Tommy showed a soul—the photograph was his and his alone.

Sometimes it rained and at other times it was just windy and the sky was ripe with clouds, always ready to burst, but it was never sunny. The sun had departed a long time ago and Tommy had never had a chance to say goodbye.2 He hated the rain; he hated that chilled him right through, like a cancer getting even to his bones. He couldn’t bear the smell of wet concrete or the dampness of his clothes against his skin. It made him want to scream.

Nobody had ever seen Tommy scream. In fact, most people had never heard him speak. They didn’t mind it too much unless they found him staring; to which they’d walk off and call him ‘weird’. Tommy never noticed this. He did not seem to acknowledge that the others kept their distances; that nobody ever spoke to him, that an invisible bubble separated him from the general frenzied state of the playground.

The teachers left him be—he’d grow out of it in time. “Just going through a bad patch,” they’d reassure one another. “And it’s understandable really.” He got their smiles and their feeble pats on the head, after all. What more could he expect?

Tommy could have done without it all. He just liked to stand alone and stare at the photograph of his mother. Sometimes he thought he could smell her perfume if he sniffed it enough, and even feel the warmth of her hand if he pressed his gigantean finger to it. He wondered if there was the tiniest bit of her soul in the paper; whether it was magic paper, and simply so because it portrayed her face and none other. Because, to him, to see her face was magic, and so there was no other explanation.

And when daddy came to the school gates, and took his little hand in hers, he didn’t say a word. He held his hand as they crossed the road and put the other one in his pocket, feeling the smoothness of the photograph.

Daddy was concerned. “How was school, Tommy?”

“Good,” said Tommy. When he peered up at him, he saw his eyes were eager for good news. “I played conkers with Eddy Harlow, and Jamie Hughes shared his sandwich with me.”

Daddy smiled. He was glad Tommy was fitting in.

Thank you, the four of you, for reading this and reviewing. I'm glad you liked it, though I'm wondering if I didn't make it clear enough that his mother is dead? Ah well. Like I said, it was simply churned out with no prior planning.
Again, thanks a million!

This is interesting..short but cute.

Not that Tommy showed a soul the photograph was his and his alone.

Sometimes it rained and at other times it was just windy and the sky was ripe with clouds, always ready to burst, but it was never sunny.

He hated the rain; he hated that chilled him right through, like a cancer getting even to his bones.

And when daddy came to the school gates

The entire story is done nicely, despite the fact that you forgot to type a word here and there. There's a hint of originality in it, something different.

On the other hand, it's quite short. Perhaps you'd like to expound a bit.

Sincerely,

Black Halo

Ooh, that was very good. I don't think it's clichéd at all, and I really liked the description of how he hated the rain. The only thing I would change is this sentence:

The photograph possessed the face of a woman, but to everyone but Tommy that face would have been faceless.