I was just out of
prison. My victim was a man who mistreated
a girl I had
fathered. The gun was where I’d stashed it long ago.
One clean shot—then
it was cover-up time. I went on a walk
through a ruined
industrial area where I’d latched on with a job.
Hiding places for
the weapon were everywhere: in the open pits
or fast-hardening
cement. Too obvious. I walked on till I reached
the other side of
the complex, then broke through a cluster of trees.
Beyond, a
dome-shaped mountain rose from a white seashore.
I took the gun and
hurled it as far as I could out into the waves,
then stood there for
awhile, hoping to feel a change. Coming back,
I came upon an
artist’s encampment. He was using found materials
discarded by the
factory. I was invited to sit down at table with him
and his twelve
followers. Throughout, I pretended to be a person
who had regained his
sight after years of blindness. Then the artist
gave me some clay
and said I could shape it into anything I wanted.
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