Momma shot Old Timothy Cradle today. Gun owner but not handler, she hid it behind wool coats after the first time she touched it and snuffed a man the second. One shot through the head, burgeoned skull splinters, crimson wallflowers. Momma prized the kill.
“Today was the last day I’ll have witnessed Timothy Cradle pick my tangerine azaleas.”
Momma usually looked like a kitten void of spirit to drink milk. Fresh gun smoke in her eyes revealed hunger. Momma shot Timothy Cradle. He dropped on cracked sidewalk, blood dappled all around him. Freckles on our white fence; freckles on Momma’s flowers.