TFR Home Page TFR Home PageContents ContentsPrev. Page Prev. PageNext Page Next PageComments Comments

The Hit
by Melissa Heaphy

Sitting in the car,
I check the mirrors
for my approaching witnesses.
My heart is racing
as I strain my ears
for the sound.
It's been quiet too long.
Is he even home?
Has something gone wrong?
The tree that protects my identity
obliterates my view--
every sense compensates.

I try to see the future,
what will be
happening
in the next ten seconds?
A police chase?
Will I freeze?
What could go wrong?
After so much planning,
how hard could it be?
Every detail worked out,
what day,
what time,
where to be and
where to go--

Waiting for the sound.
Did the gun go off?
What if I didn't hear?
My foot shakes
on the gas pedal.
Waiting
for the signal.
Tight.
Ready.

I've never
seen a
street
so
still
as this one,
until--

BAP!
A rush of movement.
I hold my breath--
his figure flies through the dark,
lands next to me
and we screech
away.
I see headlights--

Slow down.
Go right.
Drive normal.
It's so smooth--
no sirens,
only the sound
of the
wind
whistling through my
window
and the echoes
of her scream as he fell.




TFR Home Page | Submission Guidelines | Frequently Asked Questions | Sign Our Guest Book | Contents | Donations
Workshops | Event Calendar | TFR Background | How to Contact Us | Editors and Authors Only | Privacy Statement


© Copyright 1997, 2024, The Fairfield Review Inc., All Rights Reserved.
Document last modified on: 05/22/1998

<script>
(function(i,s,o,g,r,a,m){i['GoogleAnalyticsObject']=r;i[r]=i[r]||function(){
(i[r].q=i[r].q||[]).push(arguments)},i[r].l=1*new Date();a=s.createElement(o),
m=s.getElementsByTagName(o)[0];a.async=1;a.src=g;m.parentNode.insertBefore(a,m)
})(window,document,'script','https://www.google-analytics.com/analytics.js','ga');

ga('create', 'UA-22493141-2', 'auto');
ga('send', 'pageview');

</script>