Rushing, by Fliss Zakaszewska

That boat was coming in too fast! The space between its bow and the jetty was closing quickly. The wailing siren in the distance crescendo’d and fell to signal its approach. The police car screeched to a halt; the coppers sprinted towards a couple of skateboarders who shook their head and pointed to a guy sprawled on a bench.

The postman rumbled his cart past as a business-suited lady dashed along with her coffee. What’s happening?

I took a sip of tea. None of my business. My day off. I live in Cornwall, my mate’s café. Me? I’m just chillin’.

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