Everyone warned me against venturing into Somalia. “It’s dangerous,” Katy said. “You’ll get kidnapped by pirates,” Stacy said but I didn’t listen. “I’m a journalist,” I told them, “and journalists hunt for stories,” and that’s what I intended to do until now.
For the first time in my life, I feel afraid. I’ve never felt this way before. Not when I bravely sang my first tune auditioning for the school talent show, not when I played truth or dare and Katy dared me to kiss a girl, not even when the exhausted truck driver crashed into me sending me to the hospital with broken everything.
Now, I’m genuinely afraid as I sit on this dirty floor, mouth gagged, and hands tied to the pole beside me. I know nothing of my current location other than it looks like it used to be a photography studio. Large empty frames hang skew on the walls, the golden glitter shines in the dark.
A man with a hooded face enters holding my phone, “time to go,” he says in broken English.
I am participating in Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writer, where we write a piece between 100 and 150 words (more or less 25 words) in length inspired by the photo prompt above.