(Author’s note: You probably noticed that I was absent for the last couple weeks. One reason was because I turned 39, and celebrated my birthday in Los Angeles. I got to see sights, have a great time, and do a lot of different things. The other reason was because I was in the middle of a big move, and didn’t have internet at the new place until I was on vacation. So now that I’m back, let’s have some good fictioneers work.)
To Live And Die In L.A.
by Miles H. Rost
One cop car in Canyon Park was routine.
Seven meant someone wasn’t coming home to their family.
Three officers looked over and made sketches of the deceased, the massive hole that showed a liquefied heart and a half-torn stomach.
Two officers sat with a grandmother, uncontrollably sobbing, crying out “I’m sorry” in Korean. Nearby her, in another officer’s hands, a .223 rifle.
Three more officers are chatting with the medical examiner, who had taken one look at the body and motioned for the gurney.
Two officers stood by a police line, making sure reporters and their ilk didn’t get through.