The Shotgun


A long-lost ficleteer trying to take a shot at writing once again.

I gazed up nervously at the shotgun hanging on the wall above his bed as he held me in his arms and told me he had "anger issues." Perhaps I shouldn't be here, I thought. However, there was so much pain in his voice when he spoke of the past. I wanted to listen and to comfort him, so I stayed.

Never mind that I'd spent hours finding the perfect outfit and making sure my makeup and hair were flawless while he showed up for the date in ripped jeans and a faded Captain America t-shirt. Forget that I had carefully chosen my highest pair of heels so that I would not appear dwarf-like next to his six-foot-five inches of height while he wore ratty tennis shoes. Forget that he took me to the cheapest, nastiest restaurant in town and I choked down dry fried chicken while he guzzled beer that he stated "made the conversation flow better."

He later drove me home and didn't bother to wait for me to reach my door before speeding off in his beat-up Camry.

That was great! I should go out with him again.


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