|
Written by Jim Harrington
|
|
Thursday, 04 January 2007 |
This story started as a writing exercise where you select an article, a noun and a verb. I must admit I changed the verb as I got into the story. The rest happened as I watched.
The Pope knelt in the gravel parking lot fronting the charred skeleton of Lennie’s General Store. A lazy drop of sweat rolled down his nose. He gently rubbed the head of the whimpering Collie. The dog whined as The Pope moved his hand over its scraggly back. It was unable to protect itself from the pain. The Pope stared at me, as he pulled out his gun.
“Hey, Pope,” I said. “It wasn’t my fault. He jumped out in front of me. I tried to avoid him, but he was too close. You saw it. Right, Black Jack?” I probably looked like a crazed maniac, as I rocked back and forth and waved my arms.
“That’s right,” Black Jack said. “He tried to turn out of the way. Next thing I knew he fell on it.”
One hand was over my eyes now protecting them from the sunlight that knifed its way through the haze. The pungent odor from the nearby factory settled in the stagnant air and caused my nose to crinkle. Some days it was hard being a tough guy.
The Pope stood. The pistol jerked. We all jumped at the sound. He came my way, his face expressionless.
My brain said, “Run!” My legs weren’t listening. I put my hands in front of me, as if they would deflect a bullet.
The Pope stepped between my arms, put the barrel of his gun on my left cheek, his bare hand on the other and stared directly into my eyes. His face was as sour as his breath. Unlike the rest of us, he needed a shave. I wanted to look away, but my eyes took their cue from my legs.
“I hated that dog,” he said. “I gave him away three times, and the mutt always came back. You did me a big favor, Boy.”
Boy wasn’t my real name. The Pope called all of us Boy. Well, except for Black Jack. But that’s because he was Black, and his name was Jack.
I didn’t know what to say, so I waited. I watched a smile grow on The Pope’s face. He leaned closer, and kissed me right on the lips.
His laughter followed him to his bike. He mounted it and rode off.
The rest of us ran to our bikes, and we all peddled off eagerly awaiting our next adventure. |
|
Last Updated ( Tuesday, 06 February 2007 )
|
