Friday, October 17, 2014


“It’s almost midnight and my parents are still not home. Where can they be?”
“I can’t understand why I’m so nervous. I’ve been home alone before, but never for this long or so late. I jumped at noise in the kitchen. Spinning around at the sound, wide eyed I stared into the room. “It’s only the refrigerator,” I thought,” but in the quiet of the house it sounded ominous.
Moving from room to room, I turned on every light in the house. “My dad will throw a fit when about the cost of electricity when he gets home, but at this point, “I don’t care.” I picked up and loaded my dad’s 12 gauge and locked myself in my bedroom. I sat down on the bottom of my bed. I was afraid. My nerves were on edge.
The lights flickered once. Then they went out. The house plunged into darkness. I spun toward the loud tapping on the window. Pale moonlight eased through the glass. Seeing the silhouette of a moving hand, I lifted the gun and fired.
The loud blast in the small room nearly deafened me. I barely heard the crash of shattering glass.
My ears were still ringing when my parents came home. My dad reset the thrown breakers and lights came back on.
I was sitting and sobbing on my bed when my dad forced the door open. Thankfully the gun was empty. My mom gasped and my dad shook his head as he strode across the room to survey the damage.
He said, “You took care of the maple branch that I was planning to trim.” He turned to see my mom cradling me. He took two steps toward us and gently pried his shotgun from my hands. 

Several hours later, a man reported to a nearby hospital to seek treatment for wounds from a gun cleaning accident to his hand and forearm.

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