The neighbor's grandson is watching me. I can feel his breathy eyeballs searing through the wooden fence panels. I'll bet his hands are in his grungy sweatshirt pockets right at this moment...fingering only God knows what. He's a creeper.
He's their grandson, but he's a grown man. He's not some little boy that doesn't know any better, that it's not polite to cast an unwanted steady stream of gawking. This makes his breathy peepers even creepier.
I can smell the wood burning. You know the smell. Burnt umber and sawdust. A musty, earth and ash smell. He's still watching, and I can hear my rifle screaming. It's hollering out for a good thorough cleaning.
Molly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw.