Puebla is chocolate dipped, syrupy as I spoon it out of the close knit towns surrounding Mexico City. I just want to gulp it down, suck the marrow from the cattle that get leaner every year.
It smells good, being home. Or being in a place that was once home. I can’t help but hold my breath, abducting it in my lungs as if the wind here is a different flavor then the wind there.
I thought the thing I missed most was the heat, the sizzle your bare feet make against the packed dirt of the evening road. But I was wrong because I am intoxicated by the way my grandma clasps my hands to her heart, like I never left.
Puebla tastes salty, as I lick it from my top lip, brushing it from the corners of my eyes, letting it fall, absorb into my skin.
I know I can’t come back until the next thunderstorm season. The lightning hides my guilt on the tarmac,
The perspective of the shooter is not to sympathize or diminish any of what he did, but rather to shed light on how easy it is to get a gun even if you are obviously unfit to have one.
“Here, just take my money!” he interrupts before haphazardly grabbing the pistol. Unclenching his fist to let the crumpled money fall. He leaves his friend with half a lemonade and no reasoning for the purchase.
He didn’t really want to pay for it, he doesn’t like to spend money, especially when it’s going to dumb people but it was the easiest option and he wants this to be easy.
Helena wished math could be easier. or maybe just less boring but she still wanted something as she dropped her head between her hands and waited for the bell to ring.
He made the bell ring, but not the one they were expecting. He took out his new gun.