Rage

A good son died on the operating table, a bad son caused it, and the widowed mother's rage can only be quenched by a gun. One morning I sat in the wing chair in the living room, looking out the window. It was early and the darkness had barely lifted. Three crows flitted past silently, close to the ground. I turned my head and Harrison Ford stood at my shoulder. "Glock," he said. "Glock." He opened his holster and handed me a little squared-off gun. I fell asleep as I touched it. When I woke up, it was broad day and the ground was white with frost. A version of this 3,200-word mommy noir story was first published in Futures. This story is now available in the ebook, WHAT JIMMY SAW AND OTHER STORIES. It is no longer available as a single story. Out of print