By R.W. Pickett
He said he’d kill me first. He tried, before I cut him open, my throat aflame with rage. They’ll have to pull me off him. His life painted up to my wrists, I’ll make a Pollock with his pigment before I loosen my grip.
His dad’s to blame.
Everyone heard it last Sunday, his father’s sermon of righteous wrath. The words just like a gun, aimed at the four in the back. The truth, hidden, passed only from cruel father to ignorant son.
I’m sorry he’s so young. He can’t understand, having one’s whole world in an urn on the nightstand.
Awesome. Loved that
I only comment on good stories. This one blanks.
All I can glean is the narrator acted out of revenge and it’s his father in an urn on the nightstand. But even with that, there’s not enough here to make this a complete story, although the taut language and the kinetic action looped me in.
Can’t understand the punch line.
Awesome!