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Weekly Contest #363
As the fading clop of the last horse-drawn carriage echoed across Carson Park, Cliff Randall eased out of the bushes. A lone swing squeaked on the playground. Too close.“Go home, people.”Something needed to happen now, not in minutes, or even a few moments.He scurried across the trail, squatted beside a thick water oak, then slid down a rise in the creek bank. From a hidden gunny sack, he removed a Smith & Wesson and a coiled piano wire. The pistol went beneath his belt; firearms stirred a black place in his memory, making him jumpy with...
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