Twenty-one

A Story by M.Kilani

Today I stand in the land of the free, dressed well like others like myself, white headstones, the smell of fresh cut green grass, the echoes of silenced mourn, last words, bagpipe and a crow, an image in my head appears, memories of my past and present, items which I used to use that put me where I am today, my old boots which took me from a place to another during both winter and summer, it’s worn out now, my pen and papers which made many stories and poems, yellow became papers and dry is that pen, my typing machine which made plenty of news headlines of war and peace, all covered in dust of years, so is my guitar which no one heard, broken are its steel strings, to the very last one, all those items I left behind has made me who I am, because I’ve left them.

With steady stiff rough hands, I stand here, same hands which wrote, played music and fought fair, touching cold steel, steady feet and straight back, same feet which ran in joy, walked empty streets under rain, and the back which used to lean on walls in carelessness and peace, and cold staring eyes, dead eyes that had dreams of a million days, took me back away from my daydream, back to the scene, I’m here now, squeezing the trigger to fire three of twenty-one bullets.