This story is from our regular contributor, Rantz Grotto. I really look forward to his story every week. Thank you for the story Rantz . You can read his stories here.
Johnny begged, Just once! I know I can do it! I promise I won’t strike out!
Once again Coach Johnson shook his head.
The next inning Coach looked at the bench. Johnny, grab a bat. You’re up!
With a smile on his face Johnny leapt for joy, as if he had already won the game.
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All winter they slept, biding their time. Sam knew they would wake up to annoy him once more. Every year, they demanded too much of his attention. They were a necessary evil.
The rains came, and they rejoiced. But their fun in the sun didn’t last long. Sam mowed them down to 3 inches high.
One by one they shuffled past the lacquered, mahogany coffin. Most were crying. A few left mementos.
John stood under the elm’s shade, while Earl leaned against the trunk and smoked a cigarette. In an hour the mourners would be gone, and they would again take up their shovels, readying things for the afternoon service.
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He worked all his life to attain his dreams. He didn’t have time for vacations, parties and all those things that didn’t directly help him in achieving his goals.
Today he has everything that he ever wanted to have.
Ironically, he was not happy. He was filled with a feeling of emptiness.
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His days literally crawled along at 5 miles per hour. He brought joy, but only to those who could afford it. He was desperate for something to look forward to.
One day, he found it. He gave a free treat to the poorest kid on the last block he visited in his ice cream truck.
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CLICK. My rifle jammed and my heart began to pound sending cold sweat down my back and a blinding pain into my head. The man across the courtyard turned to look at me and I realised that my time here was almost up.
The smoke from the bonfire rose steadily into the still night sky.
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She opens her eyes. She knows something’s changed.
She picks up her ringing mobile.
“Are you ready?” John asked. She mumbles, “Yes.”
She hangs up, leans back, and just stared at the ceiling.
“It wasn’t a dream,” she whispers disbelievingly.
She focuses her stare on her signature’s fresh ink on the multi-million dollar contract.
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I could barely keep my teeth from chattering. The bonfire burning across the courtyard did nothing to keep me warm. My eyelids drooped under the weight of the third watch.
Suddenly, a man was standing in front of me, rifle drawn. I fumbled for the hammer, praying he hadn’t yet seen me.
I was wrong.
The cold sapped the last of my energy as I rounded the bottom of the hill and saw the smoke rising from between the towers.
My arms felt like lead as I lifted my rifle to my shoulder and faced my final stand. The wind whistled around me as I took aim and began to fire.
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This story is from Kelly Vincent. Kelly is a college student studying English and Philosophy, and she writes poetry. Thank you for the submission, Kelly.
Another twenty minutes and the weight of her eyelids matched the weight of the pen in her hand. Her eyes rolled back; the pen hit the notebook and rolled off its edge. The ink made a sharp dash through the nine lines scrawled there–the line she had been trying all night to write.
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