The Final Ticks: A Collection of Short Stories

Black Car

The black car speeds away, burning rubber on the road. The New York license plate gets smaller and disappears. Blood touches my feet. Hands grab my shoulders, pulling me away, leading me somewhere else, but the image is burned into my memory.

Behind my back, there is a man lying on the ground, sleeping quietly. Red oozes from his chest in a perfect circle from around a dark hole. His face is tear-stained and muddied up. His dark hair is tussled, like a thousand hands ran through it.

The fireflies buzz all around, lighting up their little butts because they don't know what else to do. The black car speeds away.

The man must have been in his forties. He had large hands, thick fingers, and big arms. A red bandanna lay on the ground next to his head. He was a carpenter. He loved working with his dad on the latest request for a dollhouse or a new shelf. He was going to tech school to learn all the tricks of the trade his dad had taught him. He met a young woman there. She was beautiful, and he finally had the courage to ask her out.

Now a single hole goes through his chest. People in white surrounding him shook their heads.

Cold metal touches my wrists, bringing my hands behind my back. The hands on my shoulders lead me to a desk, lit up with a single lamp blaring at a seat. They force me to sit and my legs give out under me.

A face looms before me.

The black car speeds away.