Last Summer Boys

by Bill Rivers

Grandpa Elliot made sergeant in the US Marine Corps for shooting a German sniper out of a tree in France in World War I. Same as shooting squirrels, he told me once.

Yikes. Equating human life to that of a squirrel.

Waterfall of sunshine soaks the whole world in gold as we climb into the pickup. Butch hops up for the ride and blinks his big brown eyes sleepily as he hunkers down by me and Frankie in the bed, his thick fur warm to the touch.

What twelve year old says this?

Beyond the mouth of the cave, the storm roars like a wild animal. But there’s something else in the air now, a terrible, high-pitched shrieking that sounds almost human. Sticks and leaves blow in from the night. Butch whines again. “What’s that?” Frankie asks in a trembling whisper. From the inky black, Caleb answers him. “It’s a twister.”

The constant disconnect from the flowery descriptions and the dialogue is aggravating.

“Doctors wanted him to use a cane, but he refused. That’s my old man,” Frankie says, smiling.

Ignoring the doctor... Can't complain about problems you create