"Sorry," I shouted, looking back over my shoulder to assess the carnage. The broad-shouldered yuppie shaking his fist at me looked familiar. I checked the path in front of me, then glanced back to see the yup and his two brawny companions scrambling into their car. Something told me they weren't headed out for an afternoon espresso. Their faces had "get the hippie" written all over them.

I whipped left, cutting off a honking pick-up truck, spun onto Thirteenth Street and pedaled like I was double-timing it up the stairway to heaven. Behind me, I heard screeching tires. Then I heard another sound that sent frigid spasms of fear down my backbone. Something hot whizzed past my cheek and whanged off a dumpster.

They were playing "shooting gallery" and I was the duck.

Author Bio - Mike Nettleton
Author Bio - Carolyn Rose