by Jerry Dubs
The bed is close to the wall, there’s just room enough to walk between them.
The whistling is coming from that space, so are a pair of Warren-size feet.
I round the foot of the bed and stop.
Warren is lying on his side in that narrow space. The whistling is coming from the pocket of his khakis. Apparently Warren has changed his ring tone again.
I shut my phone to stop the whistling and stand there staring at my best friend. His right arm is bent behind him at an odd angle. His mouth is hanging open and a trickle of dried blood crosses his cheek and disappears under his chin.
“Warren,” I choke out. “Get up, buddy.”
Leaning down, I tug on his shoulder. He flops over onto his back and I see it, but I don’t understand it.
A Number Two pencil is buried in Warren’s left eye.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A journalist for more than 30 years, Jerry Dubs won numerous awards for reporting and for graphic design. He and his wife live in North Carolina where they play tennis and watch Dr. Who.
He can be contacted at [email protected]
