Silver

by Kilian Conor

Crisp November air drew frosted mental images of broom-riding witches and fallen leaves crystallized in the first breath of winter. Danny jogged there under the straining heavy branches, drooping with heavy coats of packed snow.

“They were right here,” he said as I struggled to keep up with his frantic searching pace. His hood fell back from his head, revealing the close-cropped haircut. Danny was still a baby to me, had been ever since I’d asked for a baby brother. I cried when he couldn’t take his boyfriend to the prom, and instead we had a party out on the back deck. Mom and dad took pictures even though they came out so dark.

“Who Danny?” He’d been in such a rush to drag me out the door I never even had the chance to grab my gloves. I rubbed them together and winced at the drying skin.

“A car. It was an accident.” He darted off to the right, down a deer path and I fended off the twigs snapping back from his bony shoulders in his wake.

“Wait Danny. Wait.”

We broke out to a flat field, the grass trimmed recently in a wavy pattern. The ice undulated over and under every blade of grass, encasing it in silver. Two furious slashes dug deep trenches in the ground, originating somewhere from beyond the opposite end of the meadow.

“Here.”

I followed the erratic path of the twin ruts to a frozen metal hulk. A car. Shattered windows. I could see where the airbags inflated and deflated, and now hung like old glands over the embossed leather dash. A Lincoln. Black. No, purple.

I peered into the interior gloom. Two men. Blood seeping from their faces and mouths. One moaned softly.

The sound of an engine drew closer. A brown Silverado. Four men clung to the light bar in the bed of the monster and shouted when they saw us. My gaze swung from the truck to the man in the passenger seat. His eyes were open and he was looking at me. He was holding the driver’s hand.

“Please,” he said through bloodstained teeth.

Danny’d already started towards the truck. He shouted and waved his arms over his head.

“No Danny!”

The notion hit me. This was…Danny was wearing his rainbow peace sign shirt under his open jacket.

“Danny!”

I ran after him, my breath freezing as the men opened fire.

Kilian Conor writes short vulgarities, poetic atrocities, and tales of the very unfortunate. He also enjoys pie. His work can be found at http://www.kilianconor.com/