Seattle

Seattle.

It’s a good thing no one knows that I’ve got a gun. They’ll never know where I got it from. No one knows who it may have already killed. I’ve broken it down to clean and oil it. All its parts are free of debris. The slide glides smooth and easy. It swallows up the loaded magazine so hungrily. All the lights are out. All the doors are locked and the windows shut tight. A cigarette burns in a little colored glass dish. There are half crushed empty beer cans in the sink. The girl at the corner store who sold me the bottle on my kitchen counter had no idea. She greeted me warmly. She called out to the store manager in the next register. They talked about someone’s wedding day. It was an apparent embarrassment. There was fighting and the cops showed up. The fat bride was in tears. Back at my apartment, my work clothes were frumpled on my bedroom floor.  The soles of my socks damp and tired. My trousers older than I’d like them to be. The sky grows darker and darker. The nights colder. The cat’s cries, less and less. There are enough bullets in my lap for the both us. Let the music sway me. Let it change my mind. Let it put me to sleep before the hammer hits its mark.

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About magnumturtle

I write fiction.
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