found drama

In the bedroom, we watch the news; generals chase down that Revolutionary Homer Guevara.  Interviews.  Scenes of the troops.  Sound of gunfire.  The gunfire is so terribly close.  The generals are dead and the revolutionaries are coming after us.  Perhaps they believe that we are the soliders?  The generals?  Perhaps it is not the revolutionaries after us; perhaps the troops have mistaken us for the revolutionaries.  I slam shut the bedroom door and throw the lock.  The shots ring out.  The terrible thunder of bullets hitting the door; that echoes through the room.  I can tell that the door will give way.  That between the bullets and the battering, it will come down.  I throw myself against the door, digging my shoulder in, driving my feet into the carpet.  Anything to reinforce the door.  Anything to buy the others a few more seconds to slip undetected out the window.

About Rob Friesel