“What’cha doin’, daddy?”
Polished gun gleams in my palm.
I count bullets, load.
“Huggy?” Mia pleads.
I holster, pull her on lap.
“Shh…Must leave soon, work.”
“No…” Mia snuggles,
clinging to me as I stand.
I blink, set her down.
“No,” she pouts, frowning.
“I’m sorry.” I zip my coat,
jaw set, blinking tears.
© Scriptor Obscura and Scriptor Obscura Writes, All Rights Reserved.
Sad! There are many more victims in crime than those directly involved. Nicely written.
True. It is really sad. Thanks Joe.
It’s almost unbelievable how you have turned a difficult poetic form into such a free-flowing conversational scene. You are particularly talented to achieve this and also include poignancy and sadness. Amazing. Well done.
I don’t know what to say. Thank you so much Mike. I’m really amazed by your comments. Thank you so much.
Geezus, you cut straight to the heart. This is great, as always. And, you must know, I awoke this morning to a dream in which you and I were having a grand conversation. (I remember zilch, of course.)
Hah. *smiles, shakes head* Thanks. You’re really kind. We should have that conversation one day for real. That’d be really nice.
well crafted
I love “blinking tears”
Thanks Lance.
Hard to imagine a hit man as a family man. I guess we all compartmentalize ourselves to some extent.
I love this: a family man. Makes me wonder if this job ends with him dead or alive and a sweet child waiting.