Closing the busted townhouse door, I enter, breathe in the clean air, the quiet, the warmth. A foreign-feeling sense of security envelops me. The “Bon Voyage” balloons in midair are slowly deflating.
I wonder how they’ll feel about this, after ignoring my “I work for food” sign for so long.
Monica is a sustainability manager by day and a writer by night.
He opened the driver’s door and got out quietly. His son, swallowing hard, slid behind the wheel.
“Hit that gate hard and fast.”
The boy nodded.
“See you on the other side,” the father said, and disappeared.
The boy gunned the engine and dropped the clutch, steeling himself for impact.
Jim is a retired educator, living in the mountains of East Tennessee. He divides his time as he sees fit, the great advantage of retirement. His books are available through Amazon and Createspace for print and Smashwords for ebook format. His writer’s page is facebook.com/jimhartsellwriter.
They weren’t there before I slept last night. I would have noticed for sure. The dusty shapes stood out in stark contrast on the otherwise pristine surface. Size 9 at a guess. Two sizes larger than my own. Two clearly defined footprints.
Why the hell were they on my ceiling?
This story earned an Honourable Mention, with a $10 prize, in the Mere 50 Words contest.