A writer is working when he's staring out of the window … Burton Rascoe
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Fiction: Words: 383: Title:
The Fugitive: Author: ©
I picked my way from the station, keeping to the narrow back lanes and side streets, off the beaten tracks and well away from prying eyes. I couldn't risk being spotted; it would raise too many questions, too many puzzled observations, and the risk of discovery and repatriation. The last thing I wanted!
A movement at the end of an alley caught my attention. I froze.
A sudden breeze lifted the rubbish in the alley, creating a mini-maelstrom from pages of old newspapers and "Pizza Place" fliers. Squinting against the tornado of dust and grit I observed, beyond it, the flash of yellow. A small human crouched by the bins. He seemed as keen as I not to be spotted, and I couldn't help feeling a less glaring choice of shirt might help him stay hidden.
He turned his head in my direction, as if my thoughts might somehow have alerted him. I doubted he could make me out through the storm of paper, but instinctively I crouched lower.
As abruptly as it began, the wind dropped, and the papers fluttered to the ground. One sheet came to rest in front of me. I glanced down and recognised my own face staring back at me and under the image was written the hideous human name they gave me.
They looked to be wasting no time in organising their pursuit. I shuddered in disgust and shame and stiffened my resolve. I would not be apprehended this time.
From behind the bins the boy stared at me. His cautious eyes flickered to the paper at my feet and back up to meet my gaze. He nodded; the slightest, barely perceptible movement of his head and then stood to jog quietly past.
Thankful of his understanding, I stepped disdainfully over the poster offering a reward for my safe return. I continued my journey and sending a prayer to 'Bastet' for both I and the human to be successful in our own particular bids for freedom.