Near a House with Bushes

by Mike Krath

I watched from across the street, near a house with bushes.

There was a cop that pulled over a speeding truck. The cop didn't have a face. He was silhouetted in darkness. The truck wasn't though. It was white. I could easily make out the truck.

The truck stopped, but then took off. The cop fired at the truck's wheels, or so I thought. Then another truck, this time a black truck, sped by and the cop fired at it, but not at the wheels. The cop was aiming at the truck to damage it. The truck turned over.

Then the man in the overturned truck got out and pointed a gun at the cop. The cop didn't have a gun. I don't know what happened to it, but now the man with the pointed gun aimed his at the cop's head.

I knew the cop was a goner and ran. For if the man was going to shoot the cop, he'd shoot me too. I ran around the neighbor's house, but there were brown, faded meshed fences that blocked my way. I looked for a way out, but everywhere I turned there were more fences.

And I thought, what was the gun-happy cop to me? A hostile authority figure? And the pickup trucks? Defiant southern gentleman? And the senseless killing? A horrific rebellion against authority?

And I pondered these questions the best I could until I could go no further, trapped by brown, faded meshed fences near a house with bushes.

And the man with the gun crossed the block with a face I could see, but couldn't, for the shadows covered it all.

 

Index