He’d been running for years—even hijacked a spaceship once, using a plasma rifle and a bluff. But they’d finally caught up.
Mirrored glasses reflected his mute, fearful face as they scanned him and nodded.
“At a fifty percent penalty, you owe back taxes in the amount of…”
Alison pays her taxes. Honestly.
The snow was falling softly as I packed my last bag and closed the trunk. Seventeen years of my life and it all fit into a 1997 Toyota.
The porch light suddenly came on and I saw him standing on the porch with no slippers.
I turned off the ignition.
Susan Gale Wickes spent many years in the newspaper industry, but is now devoting her time and energy to writing poetry, songs, and short stories. She has been published in Haiku Journal, Sleeve, and 50-Word Stories.
The girl was sick of running, then sick of hiding once she’d run.
The only person she trusted was the man in the nearby box. She never asked for a name.
As she lay there, battered, bruised, and fighting for her life, she wished she knew his name after all.
Harriet Dyer is a comedian and writer based in the UK.
The congregation were aghast upon learning his wife had left. Imagine! During his Christmas sermon!
She’d gotten the boys dressed and out before the alarm sounded. “Where’s Santa?” they’d asked. “Surprise!” she’d said.
She’d always imagined their escape in black and white, their taxi chased by those terrible French sirens.
Mary J. Breen lives in Peterborough, Ontario, where, among other things, she teaches memoir writing. She is a retired ESL and literacy teacher, and the author of two books about women’s health. Her fiction, articles, and memoir pieces have appeared in national newspapers, essay collections, travel magazines, health journals, and literary magazines.
I ran away from home.
My folks came after me. They found me. They brought me back.
I ran away from home again.
My folks came right after me. I hid. They still found me. They brought me back again.
The next time, I burnt the house down first.
Joe Malone is living with a Wora woman and her three sisters in South Sudan. Read more of his writing at joem18b.wordpress.com.
Next door, violence prowls. A storm opens dark eyes, tears falling down, down, down.
Shhh, stop crying. See that window? Open it. Breathe. Now lean outwards slowly, slowly…
SLAM! Mother enters, eyes bruised, body bruised, freshly battered from a knockdown fight.
“What are you doing? Get back in. He’s gone.”
Elizabeth Cheung, from Hong Kong, blogs at recusant-reconditus.blogspot.com.
I was staring blankly at a dirty old apartment building, wondering whether more people go down fire escapes or up them.
You said, “It happened so suddenly; I found out yesterday,” and I wasn’t sure whether to slip out the back door, or embrace the opportunity to sneak back in.