“How do I know if I do this, you’ll release her?” said Michael. He looked down at the briefcase between his feet, fingering the sweat soaked trigger in his pocket.
“You don’t,” the response in Michael’s ear.
“I don’t,” Michael agreed, detonating the bomb as the crowds around him disappeared.
This was my (sadly unsuccessful!) entry for the Scottish Book Trust’s 50 Word Fiction Competition for February.
Book of Pye 