LOOK INSIDE THE BOOK, PLAY THE GAME
Down by the arches, underneath the fly-over I handed out sandwiches.
“Here you are, here you go,” I repeated to bundles of blankets.
“Thanks,” muffled replies responded.
The noise of traffic from above didn’t matter to those sleeping rough. As I held my hand out with another, ‘Here you go,’ an arm shot out and a hand locked around my wrist. I squealed and tried to pull back but the grip was firm. A shadowy figure rose in front of me.
“Hello little girl,” said a voice as I tried to wrench my arm back again. He was wearing a tatty black woollen coat with sleeves that were a tad too short, revealing grimy hands. His hair was thick and matted, sticking up like a perm gone wrong. His beard also matted and his wild eyes told me he was on something. I gasped, my heart racing, my mouth suddenly dry.
“I eat little girls,” he said stepping out of the darkness as I stepped backwards.
“Let go, please let go,” I whimpered, knowing he wasn’t going to.
“Come with me, little precious.” He pulled me to the black shadows of an old building.
“No, please. Stop! Let go! Let go!” My pleading fell on deaf ears.
Out of the darkness came a voice. “Let her go.”
Pivoting round, my captor growled, “Says who?”
“Let her go,” the voice said again.
There was a movement, and another voice joined him. “Leave her alone, we said.”
“Oh yeah, two of you now. Wanna take me on, do you?” The man’s eyes lit up. “I’m up for a good fight.”
Looking round wildly, I couldn’t see anything. I was so terrified, I sobbed.
“Here you are, here you go,” I repeated to bundles of blankets.
“Thanks,” muffled replies responded.
The noise of traffic from above didn’t matter to those sleeping rough. As I held my hand out with another, ‘Here you go,’ an arm shot out and a hand locked around my wrist. I squealed and tried to pull back but the grip was firm. A shadowy figure rose in front of me.
“Hello little girl,” said a voice as I tried to wrench my arm back again. He was wearing a tatty black woollen coat with sleeves that were a tad too short, revealing grimy hands. His hair was thick and matted, sticking up like a perm gone wrong. His beard also matted and his wild eyes told me he was on something. I gasped, my heart racing, my mouth suddenly dry.
“I eat little girls,” he said stepping out of the darkness as I stepped backwards.
“Let go, please let go,” I whimpered, knowing he wasn’t going to.
“Come with me, little precious.” He pulled me to the black shadows of an old building.
“No, please. Stop! Let go! Let go!” My pleading fell on deaf ears.
Out of the darkness came a voice. “Let her go.”
Pivoting round, my captor growled, “Says who?”
“Let her go,” the voice said again.
There was a movement, and another voice joined him. “Leave her alone, we said.”
“Oh yeah, two of you now. Wanna take me on, do you?” The man’s eyes lit up. “I’m up for a good fight.”
Looking round wildly, I couldn’t see anything. I was so terrified, I sobbed.
Full Copyright © Karen J. Mossman 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, obtained with permission of use, or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, obtained with permission of use, or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.