a warm waterproof hip-length jacket usually with a hood, originally worn in polar regions, but now worn for any outdoor activity
(informal, derogatory) a socially inept person with a hobby considered by most people to be boring
A few weeks before graduation I skipped school with my buddy Jordan.
We were hanging out under the bridge that crosses Honey Creek, drinking from a bottle of Wild Turkey that Jordan swiped from his step-dad's liquor cabinet.
We had a pretty good buzz rolling when Jordan pulled the gun out of his backpack. I don't know where he got it, probably another one of his step-dad's treasures. Anyway, we started playing around, shooting empty bottles that we found on the creek bank.
I'd forgotten about Mary, that I told her to meet us here. I already felt jittery, worried that someone would hear the gunfire and call the cops. Then I heard something moving through the brush. Everything after was pure reflex. It wasn't planned. Just point and shoot.
After that everything blurs together. Jordan cursing and throwing up. Grabbing Mary's body and rolling it into the creek. The smell or her perfume and blood, and the relentless drone of cicadas as we fled through the woods.
Comments (3 so far!)
- #1972 Posted 4 years ago
Darker than normal for me. I'm pretty certain it is just the first in a series of connected stories about a small town.
- #1973 Posted 4 years ago
Oh dear. They are in trouble. What did they do with the gun? Evidence gone missing. There are a lot of creeks around here with lots of different names and Honey Creek is one of them. shivers
- #1978 Posted 4 years ago
- Published 4 years ago.
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