by Bill Lapham
The bullet that killed her came through the picture window, but she never saw it, never felt it punch hole in her forehead, or sear a smoking void through her brain. She was just sitting in her padded recliner watching Oprah, dipping a fresh tea bag in her cup of piping hot water. It was Dr. Oz again, talking about the texture of her poop, how it should float, or sink, or do whatever the hell it was supposed to do, she wasn't paying attention that closely. John would be home soon and she would start dinner for him, fill the house with the aroma of fried pork chops, make their stomachs growl in anticipation. She tried to ignore the commotion outside, the neighborhood kids getting off the bus, raising hell on the way home, screaming at the top of their lungs like in a panic. Lordy, they are loud today she thought, for a second.
Bill Lapham is a student veteran.