By R. Burton
The thirty-eight revolver moves unerringly toward my mouth. The hand shakes as the dark hole at the end of the barrel comes into view.
Like a bad movie the scenes of my young life flit across my mind. Being an A student in the worst inner city high school is pure hell. Being one of the few white teens in a sea of chocolate is a guaranteed ticket to crushing abuse.
My tongue wraps around the end of the barrel. A loud bang is heard.
The front door slams as my sister yells, “Is anybody home?”
Perhaps tomorrow will be better.
A gun is not the only thing that makes a sharp report! Well done.