Gentle breeze

The sound of passing cars on the small, winding freeway carries down a winding path lined with litter. A short walk leads to the start of the swamps, thin wisps of grass lining the muddy riverside like the hairline of the retiring county clerk. A young boy sat on a small abandoned dockside, staying a few feet away from the dirty river, clouded with long-kicked-up dirt and pollution.

He stared across the water with a gaze normally worn by those almost twice his age. His gaze remained fixed on one spot of the river: three feet out from the dock, one foot left of the reeds with the 7-Eleven bag on them. A small pole the boy brought held a piece of meat he bought from the small deli run by the funny Catholic man.

He thumbed the hammer on his father's revolver, a muted chrome monster that needed both hands to hold. Pa taught him how to shoot it when he took him out to the range. It didn't make sense then but it made sense now. Pa getting mad at what the newsman said on the radio, how Pa tried to explain revenge, the revolver,  the small comment about being careful for gators.

It only made sense during Denny’s funeral service.

How did Pa know?

Well he would be proud when that gator was dead with a hole right between its scary, scary eyes. A slight ripple in the water started slowly making its way towards the piece of meat. The ugly, smiling sensation of retribution boiled in the boy's stomach, a vessel far too young to carry such contempt. He pulled the hammer back, the loud click of the hammer settling bringing a smile to the boy’s face.


He was scared of the revolver and its loud, jumping bark. But it wasn't a can of corned hash this time. It was the monster that killed his best friend.


Small reptilian nostrils broke the water, sniffing for meat. He watched them with fervor, slowly bring the sights over the eyes would be. The same terrifying little orbs that bored into his soul right before Deny disappeared under the water.