The Tourist

by Brad Rose

It was the first time he had ever been to the beach. The white sand, like a shag carpet from the 60s, only grittier, rolled out in front him, right up to water’s edge. What was the point of holding a gun that wasn't loaded? He wanted to stand there all day, and he nearly did. Not like a tourist, but like a policeman looking for a prisoner. He wasn't a policeman, he was a prisoner.


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