Warning Shot

 I could tell by the look on his face that he was dead. The twinkle in his eye, the little smirk, all gone. His color was changing, pink to yellow, as the blood drained from his face, out of the hole in the back of his head, ruining his leather headrest. I had meant it as a warning shot. His car had aimed straight at me, not braking or swerving to avoid me. I fired a warning shot over his head, through his windshield. The glass deflected the bullet downward and instead of going over his head, it shot straight in between his eyebrows. I really meant it as a warning shot. It wasn’t my fault. 

I dragged him out of the car and laid him on the pavement. I didn’t have to feel his pulse or listen to his breath. A hole straight through the brain assures only one outcome. I went back to his car and dragged the passenger out of the right seat, out of the tangle of her shoulder strap and airbag. She was breathing air and pulsing blood. She might live. I laid her on the pavement beside her lover. 

She looked up at me and said, “It was just a fling. It didn’t mean anything.” 
I said, “Save your strength. Help is on its way.” 
She said, “I was getting ready to break things off. I don’t want a divorce anymore.” 
I said, “Don’t worry. I still love you.” I leaned over and kissed a tear off of her cheek. That’s when I fired a second warning shot. 

Artifacts

 

Artifacts

When we sold my childhood home, I pried up three floorboards in the small, back bedroom and retrieved my rusty old toolbox from the darkness underneath.  I took it to my workshop, hack-sawed the padlock off, and looked inside.  Still there, after all these years, were three artifacts from my adolescence: A shard of a cracked taillight, a Chevy grill medallion, and a photo of a Camaro engulfed in flames.  I took a photo of all three and mailed it to my best friend from high school.  He promptly mailed me the check I had requested.  Days later, a bullet shattered my front window and embedded itself in my back wall.  I dug it out of the drywall with a teaspoon and added it to the other artifacts in my toolbox.  Some friendships never die.  

Meet Me in Paris

When I was seventeen, I fell in love with my girlfriend’s mother. Though much older, she fell for me, too. Our bodies never touched, but our hearts longed to.

          My girlfriend broke up with me. As I left her home for the last time, her mother took me aside and whispered in my ear, “Café Le Flore, Paris, ten years from today. Be there.” She had never been to Paris, but had seen that café in a romantic movie. I had never been to Paris either, but I swore to myself that I would be there, no matter what.
          I ached for the day we would meet again. Ten years passed slowly. On the appointed day, I found her seated at a tiny table at the Café Le Flore, her long legs crossed, with two glasses of red wine already poured.
          I said, “You’re really here. I can’t believe my eyes.”
          She said, “I never doubted. We’re meant to be together.”
          We drank two bottles of wine, then retired to Le Hotel Meurice. After two hours of passion, she rose from our bed, dressed quickly, and headed for the door.
          I said, “Don’t go. Stay. We’ve just begun.”
          She said, “I must go. I have appointments. My daughter had many boyfriends.”        

Huey the Hamster

Huey the Hamster


“Mommy, Huey’s not moving! Look!” cried Lilly.
I said, “Oh, Lilly, I’m so sorry. Huey’s dead.”
“I’m sad, Mommy.”
“Me too, honey,” I said, “Let’s bury poor Huey.”

I got my gardening gloves and potting shovel, put Huey in a shoe box, and we took him out to bury him in the soft earth under the maple tree. I started digging and hit something.

“Mommy, what’s that?”
It was another shoe box. I said, “That’s Whiskers. She was a good kitty.”
“I don’t remember Whiskers, Mommy.”
I said, “Whiskers slept on your bed every night, honey. She loved you.”
“I’m sad, Mommy.”
“Me too, Lilly.”

I started to dig another hole and hit something else.

“What’s that Mommy?”
“That’s Scruffy, our old dog.”
“But Mommy, I don’t remember Scruffy.”
“Scruffy slept by the front door to protect us. He was a good dog, honey.”
Lilly said, “I’m sad, Mommy.”
I said, “Me too, Lilly.”

I started to dig again and hit something bigger.

Lilly said, “I’m sad, Mommy. I don’t remember Daddy.”