He’s twitchy. No eye contact. As he passes my pace quickens. Footsteps move away. Then stop. I turn as he charges. Perhaps there’s the glint of a blade. I swing my briefcase in a dangerous arc. But I don’t know there’s a knife. I’ll knock him cold if I connect so I try to fend him off instead but miss. And I’m wide open.
Published by Richard Holt
A writer from Melbourne, Richard maintains a number of blogs exploring very short fiction and text-based art practices. His stories and poems have been published in both mainstream and alternative journals and collections. He is also a visual artist and was co-founder of both Platform Artists Group and zine store, Sticky. He continues to publish very short fiction and conduct microfiction workshops for practicing writers, students and others. He has created numerous text-based installations and artworks for public spaces, including at Federation Square, Melbourne and in conjunction with the 2017, Newcastle Writers Festival. View all posts by Richard Holt