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___________________

    When I was a kid I killed. I stood behind him and shot at his head. Technically I shot twice; my trigger finger wondered how a single .22 millimeter slash of iron no bigger than a fingernail could kill a man.
    I feel no remorse. No regret. No anything. I am indifferent.
    I cannot tell you why, only that the man was meant to be murdered. And I was meant to kill him. They've never found the body. I don't know why? After the shots, all I remembered is the sound of him falling, the smell of blood and earth making love.

                                                                                      ____________________


         The wind blew and blew.