Sally and George

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A man who's story was pushed onto him, decides his own ending.

Submitted: August 16, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 16, 2012




Sally quickly chased after the old tennis ball as it rolled across the lawn. After scrapping it up in her mouth she eagerly brought it back to George as he stood solemnly in front of the old apple tree his grandparents had planted when he was still a young boy.  To the Hudson family; family was everything.  In George Hudson’s case, it was the one thing that haunted him every night.

“Ok. One more throw girl,” he warned Sally, “then we go back into the house.”

Sally still panted eagerly as she anticipated his next throw, and George decided to fool her. With a bluff of his hand, Sally spun around and began running to no avail.  She began to search for a ball that had not left his hand, and was completely clueless to the fact that she would not find the ball.

“Dumb dog.” He threw the ball and walked back into the old tattered house. Before the incident 5 years prior, George had always attempted to keep the house in its best shape. Things like loose floorboards and potentially breaking parts of the house were a danger to his young and curious son, and of course, his wife often reminded him of this.

He faded through the house, slowly walking past dusty photos of close relatives and family vacations. Bypassing rooms and doors he hadn’t opened for years as made his way to his study. His desk where he often spent many of his days severed as a bed for a plethora of papers, notebooks, and cut out articles. News Papers and flyers labeled “Missing” , “Potentially Kidnapped” and “Expected Deceased” cascaded around the study. Amongst all the garbage generously scattered on top of his desk sat a simple photo frame. Unlike the other ones, this one was cleaned and neatly separated from surrounded garbage. The photo vividly displayed a young boy with one hand over the head of a small puppy, and another hand grasping a fresh tennis ball.  In the background stood George hand in hand with a woman holding a basket packed with apples.

Moments passed as he stared at the photo, even though it was only minutes, it felt as if it was an eternity to him. He pushed aside the papers that defined his obsession for the past several years and slowly pulled open the one of the drawers in the desk. Inside sat more papers, cascaded in a flurry of obvious emotion of pain and confusion. Amongst the memories sat a silver revolver, surrounded by bullet casings and papers. His fingertips brushed against the cold steal and shivered before he grabbed it. Bullets were already equipped, and all he needed to do was aim - and fire.

Almost mechanically, he took the photo from his desk, and placed it in the same spot the gun had once sat.

“I’m coming soon.” He whispered to the photo before closing the drawer shut. The revolvers tip, kissed the side of his temple, and sent shivers down his spine, making the hair on his neck stand straight. He had pulled the trigger on that gun hundreds of times prior to this moment for practice purposes, and had never expected for the piece to be used this way.  His finger hugged the trigger, and he realized that never in his years of firing the gun- had the trigger ever felt so heavy. His eyes closed tightly, and his body tensed up.

This was it; he could finally set himself free.


His eyes fluttered open and he turned around. Sally placed the tennis ball in front of him, and sat patiently on the ground.

“Dumb dog.”

She continued to pant, and picked her paw up to do the begging trick he had taught her when she was young. He opened the drawer and switched the gun with the picture, then placed it back onto the desk.


“Ok, maybe one more throw.”

© Copyright 2018 LJ Walker. All rights reserved.

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