Only Flashes, Never Entire Pictures
By F.D. Marcél
I talk about it in glass shards, crackling under the feet of children running through the alley behind the bodega. A round of thunder let off through the sky and a red tide. Wasn't like the movies. His mouth gurgled and he blinked over and over, touching his chest with limp fingers, smoke from the hole, I could see the wisps fade. Slightly. The lady who sold me strawberry soda after school was screaming. His eyes were cold suddenly. Rachel pulled my arm and it hurt me, her fingers dug into my skin. She was older and she was crying. We ran with glass breaking under our feet. Her mother washed my face. I sat on their porch, where Rachel would kiss me that summer, where I would hold her hand, not yet, not now. Mrs. Terry was explaining life and death to her daughter when I snuck away. I knew and didn't want to know. The Avenue was torn to pieces for construction. I weaved myself through rubble. His blinking eyes knew me because his hands had given me a Mike Schmidt baseball card, 1986. He wore white Nikes everywhere. I didn't want to remember his name. I lost the baseball card. Never drank strawberry soda after that. Couldn't taste it anymore, wasn't there. Nothing there.