Below are samples of some of my writing.

Running from House to House
     The hallway was silent, which was unusual.  Where were the screams, the thuds, and the random loud shrieks?  I looked to my wife.  “Where are the kids?”
     “I sent them outside,” she said
     “Have we checked on them recently?”
     She rolled her eyes.  I took the sign.  Putting down my book, I got out of my oversized papasan chair with the ravenous blue pillow that had eaten hours many a Saturday afternoon.  Through the door was the war zone formerly used as a living room.  Now it was full of half-destroyed pillow forts, partially completed art projects with glitter included, and a colorful assortment of future foot mines the rest of the world called Legos.  As I paused to mutter under my breath about how easy it would have been for the kids to simply pick up after themselves, I stopped.  The sound I heard made my blood run cold.  
     “Dad!” my daughter drew the word out in a panicked tone that made my heart stop. “Dad! Shylo is gone!”
     Still in my socks, I charged out the screen door and bounded down the three steps to the sidewalk leading to the busy street in front of our house.  “What do you mean he’s gone?!?”
     “He was here playing in the sand box.  I ran around the side of the house to get out my jump rope and he was gone.”
     “Quick, check to see if he went off to play with Billy.”
     “Okay.” She turned and ran off down the road past the row of houses that appeared to have been cloned by some architect more focused on money than design.
     Running across the street, I couldn’t help but run through possibilities in my head - cars, dogs, or strangers with unsavory motives.  Where would a three-year-old run off to?  What would get him to leave the sandbox?  Rounding the corner at the end of the block, I squinted.  Park: empty; playground: old guy with a dog. Where could he be? After a quick jog to the gas station, I turned to head home more uneasy than when I had started.  
     The sound of a dog growling caused my head to whip around in the direction of the source.  I dashed down the street, stopping three houses short.  Really? The dog was growling at a bag stuck on the fence, flapping in the wind.  
     As I passed the tree in my front yard, I noticed a nest with a mother bird feeding her chicks.  The idea struck me that the rest of the world was blissfully unaware of my current despair.  For a split second, I wanted to disappear into that bliss.  Thump.  The sound of my wife slamming the door against the inside wall as she swung it open brought me back to reality.
     “Did you find him?!?” Behind her, Lisa looked panicked.  She didn’t find him. 
     My heart sank. “No," I said.
     “Did you check the gas station? the park? the playground? the…”
     “Yes.  He was not there. There was no sign at the gas station that a random small child had wandered in.  No adults were looking for a lost parent.  The playground was empty and there was just an old guy at the park." 
     “Where is he? What do we do? He can’t be gone!” The emotional storm was threatening to erupt.  I needed a plan.  I had to fix this, somehow.
     “First, we have to start knocking on doors.  Lisa, I need you to go inside and be here in case he comes home. Mom and I will split up and start going door-to-door asking if anyone saw him, heard anything, or saw anything.”  Looking down, I realized my socks reflected the emotional ordeal I had been through.  “Honey, do you have your phone on you?”
     “Yeah,” she hollered as she began running to the first of many houses.
     I shouted, “Make sure it is on.”  I couldn’t hear her response.  She was in go mode.  Turning to head the other direction my eyes were drawn, ever so briefly, to motion in the basement window.  On any other day, I would likely not have noticed.  In my current state, I looked again.  I ran to the window and got down on all fours.  Cupping my hand, I peered inside.  There in the corner of the basement I saw it.  I almost broke out in tears.  A curious neighbor, taking in the scene, would have been highly perplexed, perhaps a bit unnerved, by the man on his knees laughing at the sky.  I jumped up, ran into the house, and took the basement stairs in two jumps.  “Shylo!” Scooping up my son, I held him tightly and kissed his head more times than I could count.  All those possibilities evaporated into my reality, my reality with my son.  
     “Dada, why you cry?”
     “I thought I lost you, kiddo.”
     “Like I lose my bobo? I cry when I lose my bobo.”
      I just beamed at him.  Lisa came stumbling down the stairs and smiled, looking over the scene.  Then it hit me: my wife was frantically running from house to house.  “Lisa, take my phone and let your mother know Shylo is safe.”