Years had passed since the war, but guerrillas still controlled the city. I snuck through the ruins, hid in long shadows cast by a shy moon.

I heard rubble shift behind me, a gun muzzle pressed at my back.

“Stop,” he said. A child’s voice. Tearful. “Tell me a story.”

The closest Guy has ever been to a war zone was working in a bar on a Saturday night. This is his eleventh 50-word story.