ÿþ<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> <html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> <head> <title> Poetry and Prose from In Posse Review</title> <meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html" charset="utf-8" /> <meta name="author" content="In Posse Review, http://www.webdelsol.com" /> <link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="19_a_style.css" /> </head> <body> <center> <br /> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"> <tr> <td valign="top" width="35px"> <p> <img src="insposse.gif" width="30px" height="187px" alt=" " /><br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;</p> </td> <td valign="top" width="15px" bgcolor="#0f0000">&nbsp;</td> <td width="15px">&nbsp;</td> <td align="left" valign="top" width="400px"> <h1>Two Short Shorts</h1> <h2>John Lowry</h2> <p>FIREFIGHT</p> <p> Lucy wanted the bed. She was tall and thin and blond and the two of us, Sammy and me, had been in love with her but not any more. There was only one chair. We passed the wine around. Sammy said there was nothing to worry about. Lucy said she didn't care. She was tired and dirty and sick of the whole thing. I edged over to the window, using the curtain for cover and Sammy took the other side, holding his Kalashnikov like a dancing partner. I had my Glock. Samo-samo: The black car sitting under the streetlight, the dark alley, the scraggly tree, or maybe it was a bush, hanging over it. A hungry looking dog trotted down the street. There were a lot of hungry looking dogs. I wanted to shoot him but knew better. Sammy's eyes looked huge and black, like mine, I bet. Something funny, Lucy said, waving the wine bottle. My mother, she's finally old, right? Now she wishes she had skipped the first half of her life. Something funny, I said. When I was in college, I couldn't believe how good women smelled. Sammy laughed. He always stopped just when he was starting to sound like a maniac. A guy popped out of the alley, holding his rifle in his crouch, like a rock musician. He was gone in an instant. Holy Yankee! Sammy said. Why didn't you shoot? I didn't know so I said nothing. I'm going to blow his head off. I can just smell it, Sammy said. You writing this down? he said, turning to Lucy. Gotcha, she said. How do you spell Sammy again? You notice the birds are quiet? Sammy said. What birds? I said. They're out there. What do you think? Because it's night, the birds go sleep in a motel? he said. I feel like stripping, being tied to the bed, Lucy said. We both looked at her. It's not sex, she said, it's tension. We got tired talking. There was a strange sound and the guy jumped out again, his legs spread, waving his rifle like it was a fire hose. The tracers rose up, making the curtains move. Sammy and I fired at the same time. Our ears rang. The car jumped like it was in pain, red raindrops dancing on its hood. Geysers of white erupted from the sidewalk. The shooter had disappeared. Oh, shit, I got him! I killed him! Sammy yelled. Bull shit, I said. You hear what I said! he yelled again. I killed him! I looked at Lucy. She was standing with her eyes closed, her hands over her ears. Oh shit, shit, shit! Write this down, Sammy said to Lucy. The body twitched once or twice as though reluctant to give up his soul. No, wait! My initial exhilaration turned to a tragic numbness. Gotcha, Lucy said, rolling onto the bed. The only A I got in college was in pottery, she said. As though a gong had sounded, Sammy and I stepped back from the window. We both started for the chair. Sammy offered it to me but I lay down next to Lucy. She handed me the wine bottle. I liked her again but didn't know what to say. Sammy yawned. He sounded like a cow and we laughed. After a second, he joined in. When I go home, I'm going to hurt men, Lucy said. </p> <br> <p> HOME</p> <p>I opened the door carefully. The familiar smell: flowers and alcohol. I stood a moment but I didn't cry. I walked around, inspecting the wilted flowers on the coffee table, the green couch with the burn marks on the arm rests. I touched my fingers to the couch. It felt good, like soft skin. The mirror above it showed my face. It still hurt; my eyes were like slits. The bar! I hurried over and picking up the Scotch bottle took a long drink. The heat rose from my chest to my cheeks. I wiped my mouth and tried to think. I was about to take another drink when there was a noise in the street, a loud bang, and I ducked down, holding the bottle, and waited. It was nothing. I took a breath and walked to the bedroom, opening the door slowly. A small lamp burned on a night table. Dark curtains covered the windows. Courtney was in bed, in her photo-op, silk pajamas, thick hair streaming over the pillow, one arm curled around her head. I sat down on the bed and she opened her eyes. Her face had no expression. I'm home, I whispered. She sat up, shrinking away. I nodded. My face, I said. It will go away. Are you glad to see me?</p> <br><br> <hr /> <h2>John Lowry</h2> <p>John Lowry has published stories in such mags as <em>Fiction, The Quarterly</em> and <em>North American Review</em>, as well as a collection of stories, <em>Travelling Through Space</em>, via iUniverse.  It was a best seller in a town outside Odessa, he says,  where I am regarded as a Hero of the People." To avoid starvation and jail, he s taught college English and worked in the business world, mainly in a bank. </p> <br /> <br /> <div id="logo"><em>In Posse:</em> Potentially, might be . . . </div> <p><img src="tedhead.gif" align="right" alt="logo" /></p> <h3><a href="http://webdelsol.com/InPosse/index.htm" align="right"> Return</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; </h3> <br /> <hr /> </td></tr></table></center></body></html>