Little Guns: A Short Story

Little Guns

If you’ve ever looked outside to the great Blue Mountains in Sydney, Australia, you’d see a basic reflection of your life. You might even recall a vague memory, once you’ve managed to catch your breath; it’s that beautiful. Vast, sand-filled mountains sprinkled with growth that ranges from cacti to bright green shrubs. Bright, blue skies that stretch as far as the eye can see. That’s the Blue Mountains, all right. When you live right on the border of the range, you wake up to the sight every day. Although, it is difficult to see when you have 3 layers of sheets piled on top of you, slowly sucking the air from the bed. Kicking the sheets off, I rolled over to stare blurry-eyed at my alarm clock. The neon numbers glared a bright 6:45, telling me I should probably get

Dad still hadn’t achieved the fixing of his tie, and I could see he was growing impatient. He did this little thing when he was annoyed, where his face would scrunch up and you could see his jaw tense. It could actually be humorous, if Dad wasn’t Dad. “Um,” He replied, distractedly, “Why don’t you ask your mother? I’m kind of busy today.” “But,” I reminded him, “It is the last day of school. And,” I continued, when I saw he was about to protest, “You promised that you would pick me up on the last day of school this year and take me to that waterpark, if I remember correctly.” “Sam, that was months ago. You know my schedule.” You know my schedule. I was really getting sick of that response. Every time I asked something from Dad -which seemed to be all the time these days because of mom’s lack of leaving the house- he would blow me off with that same old reply: “You know my schedule.” Sitting back up, I muffled a groan. “Well, it looks like I’ll be walking home