toluka

They say you don’t hear the bullet, but he did. He heard it whistle and whiz. In fact, he could repeat exactly what he’d heard. He’d heard it coming closer. Heard it slow, but just a bit. Heard it grunt when it bowled into his left thigh, then grind to a stop against his femur, and it, crack. Odd, he now considered, after all he’d read and caught from his friends, his pals, who were, now, standing over him, looking at him, eyes bulging, mouths open. And he wanted to tell them that, yes, he was able to hear the one that got him, that maybe that would help them. But, now, he felt himself move to the top, over himself, watching, now, from over himself. Over himself. He worried, suddenly, about Kenny Toon, the kid just in from Toluka and his wife, Mardi, who was pregnant. But all he could do was watch as they gaped at him. Before he exactly knew what was happening, he thought of his dog, back home in Topeka. He worried about Stuka. Stuka would miss him. Might even kill him. Stuka.