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.


Brad Rose can be reached here. (Click here to make a donation to Brad, half of which will support 6S.)


Anonymous said...

I live on the Chesapeake Bay and I to am a prisoner. This is very good.

Jeanette Cheezum

Astrid said...

Hey Brad, come to my cell. Leave your cowboys boots at home.