Issue 11
Iron
John A. Ward
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We Were Playing Guns
I had two costumes. One, a regular cowboy, the other a caped hero, Zorro,
but with a straw hat and terrycloth towel billowing from my shoulders. I
slipped in and out of the garage to change personas. On one foray, I had Mom
cut a piece of watermelon for everyone in the game. I put them in my wagon,
a grand gesture; I would be kid of the hour. I burst out to announce my
treasure, but before I could I found my best friend, Carl, had joined the
game in my absence. He attacked my position, cap gun blazing. My fifty-shot
repeater returned fire mercilessly. Riddled with imaginary bullets, spurting
blood from all major arteries, he pressed his attack. I retreated into the
garage. I didn't want him to know I had no watermelon for him. "You're
dead!" I screamed. "I'm not!" he shouted, and forced the door. We fell to
the floor and rolled like a tangle of tumbleweeds. He chipped his tooth on
the barrel of my nickel-plated shooting iron with the plastic ivory grips.
"Owww!" he yelled. He went home and told. His mother called Mom. Mom called
me. Nobody got any watermelon.
~John A. Ward
John A. Ward was born on Staten Island, attended Wagner College in the early 60's, and sold his first poem to Leatherneck Magazine for $10. Email.
© 2003 by John A. Ward. All Rights Reserved.
© Copyright 2003 by Cayuse Press. All Rights Reserved.