The shell casing slow motions skyward, drop-floats back to ryegrass, brass in a tight coat of gunpowder.
Many others, random as dandelions, are found by the sunlight, gathered, handed out to wilt between our fingers, in pockets.
A cousin reminds us to wash with lots of soap after touching them. Lead residue. Still warm in our hands, the poison slow motions, too.
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I first read Rusty Barnes’ Mostly Redneck last year. My intentions were to write a review at that time, but, in all seriousness, I just... -
Hi. I'm Sheldon, and I'm a television addict. Well, not really. I never watch television. Not exactly. The problem is I buy, bor...
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Andrew Bowen is a thinker. A writer, an editor, a theologian, a philosopher, and did I mention one hell of a thinker. That's why I...
I love this Sheldon. It's so quiet - but still deadly at the end.
ReplyDelete- Felicia
Thanks, Marlena. It's nice to see you here, doing me the honor of reading my little offerings. It is greatly appreciated.
ReplyDeleteHit me like a sniper's bullet. Well done.
ReplyDeleteCool, Andrew. Hope it's just a flesh wound, though.
ReplyDelete