by Nik Perring
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You're off the school bus, that pulled away five minutes ago, and you're ten minutes walk from home. There are fields on either side of the road. You can't just toss it and run, can you?
Actually, you can. You have to. You've pulled the pin out! You have no idea how long it'll be before it explodes—if it explodes at all—but you know you can't have much time. Mike knows that as well. That's why he's pelting, up the hill, away from you.
You run to the fence. You toss the grenade as far as you can. You're happy with the distance you get, pretty much, though you'll have to make a run for it to be sure you'll be safe.
You're relieved. But only for a second. The panic returns. You feel it in your belly, in your legs. Your eyes are wide.
It's landed near the farmer.
Seconds are ticking by.
You need to get away from it. Away from the danger.
You need to warn the farmer.
This could be murder.
You shout. You scream warnings at him. Scream so loudly your throat burns.
But he's keeping his back to you. Hasn't heard.
And seconds are ticking by.
You will try one last time. You have to. But you have to get away too. You don't want to be responsible for killing or maiming someone, but you need to protect yourself; it's human nature.
Again you scream.
Still he stays rigid. Deaf to you.
And then: a moment of clarity.
You panic.
You realise.
This is not the farmer.
This is a scarecrow.
And seconds are ticking by.
All content in SmokeLong Quarterly copyright 2003-2010 by its authors.
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