by William Lapham
I could see the bullet coming, rifling, homing with gyroscopic eyes. It was aimed right at me. Time lost traction on my thin luminescent dial. I flipped through a mental rolodex of enemies I’d made over the years. I wondered who could have hated me enough to pull the trigger on a loaded chamber. There were so many possibilities.
A pane of glass in front of me provided scant protection: the bullet burst through, fractured glass, and continued on its die-cast mission straight for my forehead. My eyes crossed as they tracked its trace. Closer it came. The window cracked in orchidfloral patterns. A spectral display did little to ease my nervous trepidation.
Mildred: long legs, nice ass, perky rack. But a face that could wilt a hardwood baseball bat. Still, that body. I had made promises I could not keep. This was evidence of her ire rising.
The bullet spun in slower and slower rotations as it closed the range. It knew where to go, knew what to do. I tried to stay calm and get out of its path, but I was paralyzed. Slippage-time had run out. I shut my eyes in mortal anticipation.
I felt the compression wave first, before the impact. Then hot metal pressing against my skin, stretching it. The puncture and blast of gristle and bone. The bullet’s penetration through brainsizzle and snap.
The last thought I had, as heat parted the synaptic sea, was of Mildred’s red lipstick saying good-bye, and kissing me.
4 comments:
Nice imagery, and nice use of the noir style.
The journey really is everything, isn't it? That bullet (loved gyroscopic pattern) and its knowing -- you made death interesting.
That said, I always have problems with any story that's told by the person who gets killed. My left brain (a real bitch of a corrections officer) says it is a conceit because how can one write after one's own demise.
The journey really is everything, isn't it? That bullet (loved gyroscopic pattern) and its knowing -- you made death interesting.
That said, I always have problems with any story that's told by the person who gets killed. My left brain (a real bitch of a corrections officer) says it is a conceit because how can one write after one's own demise.
All I can say, Gita, is that he had time in a time slipped world. He jotted down his notes and I compiled them, spruced them up a bit, and published them posthumously. Kind of like they did with The Pale King by DFW. Did you think about that possibility? Huh? ;-)
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