the Cemetery

Short story.

There was a cemetery in the cornfield out back. The boy’s dad told him to stay away from it but there was a tree with those low branches that are perfect for climbing. He was careful not to break any of the cornstalks.

His bb gun was hanging on his shoulder. His other shoulder had a sack of his dad’s empties.

He finished setting the last one up on the fence when he turned around and saw that he had been ambushed by a whole platoon of confederate beer bottles. He took aim and fired. One by one they fell to the ground.

His skilled hand was steady after years of combat.

He pulled a bent cigarette out of his jacket pocket and snapped a match on one of the headstones, first try. He smoked his victory smoke. It was dated 1889-1915, her name was Martha Edwards. There was a smaller one to the right of her. It was dated 1915, his name was Franklin Edwards. It seemed odd to him.

Not all of the bottles broke. He took cover behind the tree and raised his rifle instinctively and from left to right, in a row, with ease.

“Ben!”

He tapped his victory smoke out on the tree and flicked it into the cornstalks.