“See who’s at the door, Emily.”
I notice his muddied broken boots. Then his face all lined. His widow’s peak, sharp like mine. The smile, curling like newsprint thrown in the fire.
He says, “Found you.”
A chrysanthemum blossoms on his chest. I take the gun from mom’s shaking hand.
James Geneser is a writer and an artist who doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but knows he loves telling stories.
I crouch, bound in tension, not daring to move, not daring to breathe, not daring to blink, lest I be discovered. The consequences would be extremely unsavoury…
Someone enters the room, stops, inhales deeply. Can they smell me? They depart.
I peek. The coast is clear.
This pie is MINE!
Cowering under a table, Lee listened and waited.
They were coming.
Lee saw their socked feet move through the kitchen, past her hiding place. They stopped outside her bedroom door…
…then flung it open, shouting, “Surprise! Happy Birthday!”
She stifled a scream, scrambled out from under the table, and fled.