Woodpile
By Lee Capps
The boy sat in skim moonlight, riffled by the flashing TV: a pistol, a shot, a body tumbling into a ditch. Ben did not see this made up murder. He saw a cigarette ember in the foyer trace an arc from armrest to lips and back again. He heard tires on gravel, the truck motor diesel and die, a door squeak open and bang shut. The heavy scrape and shuffle of his grandfather’s boots on concrete steps. He heard his grandmother get up from her chair and saw the orange tip of her cigarette pass into the kitchen.
©2007 Lee Capps. All rights reserved.
