IT WAS RED

Put on your red dress, Baby. We’re going steppin’ out tonight. An’ you better wear you boxin’ gloves, Honey, in case some fool might want to fight.

It was red. No way could I change that. I was flying down East 32^nd Ave. at well over fifty miles per hour, weaving in and out of traffic, shortly after making a large withdrawal from the Foothills Bank.

Clearly the teller had called the cops, as I could hear sirens wailing and see flashing lights far behind in the rearview mirror. I couldn’t stop or they were certain to catch me. I was not about to go back to prison.

The traffic light was solid red. I firewalled the accelerator and began flashing my headlights, hoping to beat the huge lettuce truck coming from the left to the intersection. …..

John Gable

*****

T WAS RED

“Why did you shoot?!,” Dave demanded, somewhat peeved and frustrated.

“It was red!” I yelled back defensively.

“What do you mean it was red?  What was red? I did not see any red!” he answered.

This was not the first time we had this conversation.

Dave continued:  “Look, you must be color blind, because I did not see any red on its head or its plumage.  If you keep popping off at hen pheasants we both are going to land in the local slammer.”

Dave and I have a history, a good history but one that has occasionally, accidentally turned momentarily sour.

We have mille-seconds to decide but once the trigger is squeezed there is no way to pull back time.

Pat Stone