Three cross­es on a hill made from rusty clothes­line poles watched over the town. She hit a stripe with the cue, and it bounced off the cor­ner of green felt instead of into the pock­et. He had start­ed run­ning again, every morn­ing out by the old mill and back into town the dirt way past the laun­dro­mat. ~Lisa Thornton is a writer and nurse. She has been short­list­ed for the Bath Flash Fiction award and the Bridport Flash Fiction Prize.