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    Thomas white

    On the outskirts sits a small hill overlooking a long stretch of unoccupied grassland. The grass wasn’t here a week ago, but that is the nature of things. Here and there spread apart and at odd intervals are large sections of ripped up and churned ground. Suddenly a loud exultation booms from atop the hill and a rocket spirals and twists in the air, striking the ground and ripping up large chunks of sod. “Shit.” says a voice on the hill as it spits off to the side. “Damn thing still needs tightening.” The man in the cowboy hat and duster makes a small adjustment to the launcher, then shoulder mounts it and fires again. This time he smiles a bit. “Gettin closer.” he says as he lights his cigarette off the red hot barrel.

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