september 2019 third place: crossing by ute gillett

His carrot-red hair, tinged with coal, stood up straight. The white of his bulging eyes shone from his soot covered face. Sweat pearled on his forehead, glistening in the light I’d switched on. The cellar window behind him still half open, he was frozen between reality and  dream. Twice I tried to say something, but my mouth was dry and my breath stuck in my heart. I turned and ran. Through the door, up the stone steps and into the apartment where I then stumbled over my words. 

“There’s a man in the coal bin!” 

My father, with well rehearsed movements, picked up his gun, his badge, then code knocked on the apartment across the hall, producing mirror image. Both men, guns drawn, their backs against the wall, disappeared into the basement.

Later, the redhead ate at our kitchen table. The coal still muddied his freckled complexion and he had not bothered to wash his blood crusted hands. Between bites, he answered my father’s questions of his crossing. 

“Like a fox,” he said, “like a fox. Clever. Now you see him, now you don’t.” 

“It’s too far a distance to not be seen,” my father challenged him. “And the mines, how did you miss the land mines?”

“Helps to have friends,” he admitted. “Friends to distract the guard tower. And a board to bridge the mine strip. The barb wire was the least of it. What’s a few gashes traded for freedom?” 

His eyes started wandering and he fell silent. Swallowing hard, he stammered, ”They’re gonna build a wall. Like Berlin. A wall. Now or never. Never be able to get over that wall. Lucky to have managed now.” 

At six years old, I looked over my arms, my legs, and felt my face. No blood. West Germany.

Ute Farber is a teacher and writes flash fiction because it gives him a creative outlet in a few words. He is in the middle of publishing a children's book called THE SHELL which addresses environmental issues as well as personal growth while maintaining a positive attitude and outlook.