Emily Taylor

The old man always sat in Booth Seven. Same greasy spoon. Same steaming cup of black tea. Same quiet

At first, it sounds like some sort of prank. A child saying he can tame a wild horse. I can ride that one.

Stop. Thats not yours. Put it back. You havent paid for that. There was no anger in the words.

Madam, if you spill one more drop, youre out, barked the man at table twelve, slicing through the gentle

Wait that bracelet The little boys tiny hand seized the soldiers battered Army jacket before anyone in

Stop. Not another foot, please. Would someone mind ringing security? This isnt a hostel. Out you go.

Everybody stay where you are! Engines growled through the rain, their noise bouncing off the damp brickwork outside.

The tumbler flew through the air and struck his cheek before a word had been uttered. Water burst up

Stopdont say yes. A young voice shattered the hush, like a cricket chirping at midnight in the middle

Leave. Now. A heavy boot thudded against the pub table, shoving it an inch closer to the sticky floor.