The Gun

Everything moved in slow motion. The bullets ricocheted off of the pavement before they came wizzing past me in all directions. The white kid with the handgun was too far away for his bullets to find their targets. He was walking quickly in our direction but I wasn’t scared. We all just stood there at first, kind of stunned I guess. I knew that ten round clip would run out before he grew close enough to be within range. He was already up to 6 or 7 shots I think. I lost count when a wild ricocheted bullet tore through the fleshy part of my leg. The impact shook me, not because it hurt right away just because the world started spinning again, must faster now than normal. I stumbled and fell to my hands. None of us were thinking clearly now, we were running on instinct already, as fast as we could run from this crazy wannabe gangster. I crawled on my hands for a second and then came up running with everybody else. I was moving pretty fast at first and then the pain in my leg almost dropped me again I limped as fast as I could down the nearest alleyway. Time slowed down again and returned to normal. When I felt that I had put a safe distance between the gunman, and myself I slumped down in the alley behind a dumpster and began to evaluate my wound. Everyone else kept running without me. They had to leave, because the cops were surely on their way, and they were carrying the stash. I was bleeding a lot. I don’t remember how it felt, but when I saw the blood squirting through the hole in my jeans I felt really dizzy. As I leaned back against the black trash bags I remember thinking. How could this happen? I didn’t know anybody was packing heat. I mean, this isn’t the ghetto of Baltimore. Denver has always been just a small taste of the bigger cities. The clientele here is rich business types, not homeless junkies. Who needs a gun? Denver is just an island of big city life, in the middle of the Midwest. Still, there has always been plenty of addicts around for everybody to make enough cash without fighting each other. How could this happen? As I tried to evaluate what had happened in the last few minutes everything went blurry. I felt cold. I knew what was coming next. I was about to lose consciousness and their was nothing i could do about it. How could this happen? I never thought paying for college would be like this. Time stopped once again, that’s all I remember before I woke up here in bed, doctors, nurses and beeping sounds of the ER ringing in my head.

Rough Morning (a short fictional story)

I woke up this morning, but it wasn't easy. My breath made me sick and my feet hurt. I eventually found my self in the kitchen and, after some struggling i managed to light the filter end of my cigarette. I didn't notice the smell of burning fiberglass cigarette filter. I was busy fixing breakfast. I cut my finger opening my morning bottle of cheap beer. I considered cursing at the bloody mess but I stopped when I saw a letter from Jackie. Jackie is my girl, sometimes. I didn't bother reading her scribbled letter before i tossed it in the trash. I already knew what it said. She was leaving again, this time was probably for good again. I vaugely remember the argument with Jackie that preceded her predictable response. Jackie's always been an expert dramatist. Dripping with tears and tossing out random insults in my direction before storming out of my apartment was her favorite scene. I'm almost certain it was the same argument we have at least three times a week. At least that often Jackie chooses to accuse me of being an alchoholic. I always tell her the same thing in a rehearsed line that indicates i'm correcting her sarcastically. "I am a recovering alchoholic sweetie pie. I'm recovering from all the years i spent sober, working a dead end job, while you were out every night blowing every doorman with an eight ball." She never appreciates my sense of humor.