One of my favorite things (or compulsions) is writing. Scenes will pop into my head and I just have to write them down. Here's one. And yes, I have a novel in me... "I have at least a dozen books in me!"
Ralph thought he was seeing double. “How could this be?” He muttered to himself. He wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes and looked again. “Damn!” She was still there, standing under the cherry tree, with a gun in her hand. It made no sense at all, and he started to get a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. The world seemed to be slowing down.
Then, it got very quiet. There was a rushing sound in his ears. It felt like he was struggling to swim through really thick water. But he was not wet at all. When he confirmed that the dirt felt so dry under his hands he realized he was no longer standing. He was on his knees, leaning forward on his hands.
“Matilda?” He strained to get the dusty words out of his mouth. Nothing was making sense and least of all Matilda standing under the cherry tree with a gun.
“I’m tired Matilda. Come sit with me.”
Matilda did not move. Ralph felt a burning itch on his stomach. His now clumsy, heavy hand fussed at the itch, and it hurt. “What the…” he thought as he looked down to see why his stomach hurt. The flowing, sticky red liquid covering his hand and shirt front confounded his efforts to identify it. He swirled the liquid between his thumb and forefinger. The sensation pleased him, and he smiled ever so slightly.
Cruelly, lucidity came flowing back at Ralph like a freight train. It hit him almost as hard as the bullet that had slammed into his stomach just seconds before. A flood of desperate emotions attacked his mind. His head snapped up and he shouted “Matilda!”
Well, he wanted to shout. It was a hoarse whisper at best. Burbling globs of blood appeared on his lips. Suddenly he could see clearly again. The sweat had gone. He was chilly in fact. And he could see Matilda. Standing under the cherry tree. With a gun in her hand. As he focused his dying eyes on her face, her beautiful face that he had so loved, he saw that she was smiling.
It was the last thing he felt. An enormous wave of sadness mixed with longing for his Matilda, and a sense of betrayal. “Why did she…”
Ralph slowly sank forward onto the pool of blood that had started to form in the dry uncaring dirt before him. His eyes came slowly to rest, half closed. His blood stopped flowing out of the wound in his abdomen. His legs gave up their futile struggle to get under his body and lift him upright. The neurons in his brain sparkled with just a few final pulses. Then, with no fanfare, and certainly no warning, Ralph died.
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