By Paul Beckman

I hid in the cellar until my father drove off and then, hungry as hell, I took the stairs three at a time but the door to the kitchen was locked. I walked over to the bulkhead, slid the bar on the door and pushed.

The rusted hatchway door creaked open. My father was sitting in the aluminum chair with the green and white webbing, arms folded, his patented nasty smirk, and I knew a beating was coming before he called the police to have me sent back; but I craved a bowl of Fruit Loops, so I didn’t run.

         
“I write in order to either ease or create the pain.” – the author