Safe?

The train came to a halt, and the platform filled with German police. They entered, and people quieted while my heart pounded.

“Papers!”

I handed my identification to the Nazi, and he scanned them, eyeing me at the same time as I sweated profusely. He tossed them on my lap and moved on, not noticing the forgery.

Screams ensued as the woman behind me beseeched the officer to let her husband go, and then I heard a thud. The Man had collapsed, presumably dead and the woman in hysterics was taken away.

A few more stops and I’ll be safe.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

For The Record

“She was attractive. Cute face.”

“Facts, please,” the officer cringed, pausing his pen.

“Black-rimmed glasses, plum lipstick and...”

“What was stolen?”

“My cellphone. One minute in my hand. The next, gone.”

A woman was called to the counter by the second officer on duty.

“Reporting a theft,” she announced. “Thief had salt and pepper hair.”

“What was taken?”

“My cellphone.”

The officers compared the complainants with the details given.

“You two realize making false claims is an offence,” one said.

“We can let you go this time,” the other scolded. “Go home and make up or see a marriage counsellor.”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction regardless of the season or location she finds herself in.

Officer Down

The bullet tore through flesh and bone. The arm fell limp, and Officer Brady drew his weapon with his non-shooting hand. Their assailant continued to fire from outside the passenger window of the cruiser as his partner slumped unconscious and bleeding in the front seat. Her baby was born in spring. She returned to duty last week.

Placing his front sight on center mass, Brady squeezed the trigger and watched the attacker drop to the pavement. After screaming “officer down” into the microphone, he smashed his foot down on the accelerator, racing the mother of his child to New York-Presbyterian.

From Guest Contributor B.G. Smith

B.G. Smith enjoys writing flash fiction and drinking Kentucky straight bourbon, usually at the same time. B.G. is a married father of four boys and a lifelong fan of Philadelphia professional sports teams, which explains the affinity for bourbon. His stories have appeared in Pocket Fiction, Microfiction Monday Magazine, The Drabble, and Scribes*MICRO*Fiction.

Dead Weight

Eloise had been silent the whole trip back.

“If you’re still upset about what we revealed on Pan-Gu, all’s golden, alright?”

She stared at Armand blankly. The whole galley did. He pulled the craft into the space station miles above Jupiter. A station security officer greeted them.

“No one talking to me? Suit yourselves,” and Armand stepped down the gangway, past the security officer. “One of my crew will sign your documents.”

He stormed off.

The young officer leaned inside the craft. The stench made his eyes water. He saw five pairs of eyes staring around him, jaws hanging slack.

From Guest Contributor S.R Malone

The Seventh Floor

The squad car with blue lights flashing lit up the night and announced a police presence before he entered the building.

The receptionist looked up at the cop coming through the door and smiled.

“Good evening officer. This is becoming a regular occurrence.”

“Yes, Ma’am, second Friday night this month,” said the cop.

“Let me guess, seventh floor? Mrs. Smith called about Frannie’s drinking party again?”

“Bingo.”

“We’ll try to settle Mrs. Smith down first, then talk with Frannie.”

“Thanks.”

The cop shook his head and asked, “How loud can they be? This is a retirement village for God’s sake.”From Guest Contributor N.T. Franklin

NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

Papers

- Good afternoon, sir. Can I see your papers, please?

- Is there a problem, officer? I don’t think I was speeding, was I?

- I said: papers.

- ...uhm...all right. Here they are.

- Are you the person on this ID?

- Yes, I am.

- This picture isn’t very recent.

- Can I take a look? ... No it isn’t.

- I’m afraid I’ll have to bring you in, sir.

- What? Because my picture isn’t very up-to-date?

- No sir, because of the consequences it might have.

- Such as?

- Well...you might run into someone you bullied as a kid and who is now a cop.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

The Priest

It looked like the kid in the black hoodie had a gun in his hand. And, we all knew that the officer, who was coming around the corner, couldn’t see him.

The priest raised the Glock and fired, hit the kid square in the chest, knocked him flat.

The guy in charge whistled. “Why’d you shoot?”

“Thought he had a gun.”

He reran the video. “It’s an axe—he’s splitting wood.”

Everyone could tell the priest felt foolish. No matter. We got on the bus and rode to the shooting range. We wanted to see them shoot the 50-caliber rifle.

From Guest Contributor Andrew Miller

Andrew retired from a career that included university teaching and research. Now he has time to pursue his long-held interest in creative writing. Check out some of his publications at: http://www.andrewcmiller.com/

Just Another Day

Officer Barrett aimed and fired his gun, hitting the man in the shoulder. The criminal dropped his weapon and screeched in pain.

“On your knees, hands behind your head,” Barrett said, cuffing the man’s hands.

“Take it easy, I have a bullet in my shoulder,” he wriggled as Barrett pushed him to his feet.

“Better than a bullet in your head, like you did to that poor woman’s husband. You’re going away for a very long time. This was your last house robbery.

Barrett put him in the squad car and slammed the door.

Just another day on the job.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Trenches

Joseph lived in the trenches. The others came and went, firing weapons at the enemy location before marching elsewhere. Joseph always stayed.

The soldiers ignored him, except to push him aside when he got in their way. On occasion, an officer noticed him and ordered that he be taken away, but then a bomb would explode and Joseph was left to his own devices.

Joseph had a reasonably comfortable spot. He mostly just lay in the soft mud. It no longer mattered if he was face down in the pool of water at their feet. Breathing was no longer necessary.

Sonny Boy

Stop! You there STOP! Shouted the policeman.

No way was I going to stop. I didn’t do anything. The cops just wanted anyone who had been near the riot to bring in and arrest, and it wasn’t going to be me. So I ran. And I ran smack into a horse which knocked me flat on my ass.

“Where you going there sonny boy?” smiled the burly officer on the even burlier horse. “It’s Christmas mister, I was just heading home to my gran’s. She ‘d kill me if she knew I was even near a rally.”

Too Bad boy!

From Guest Contributor Philip Diehl