Susan Miller “Last Job” flash fiction

Valerie MacEwan Dead

The fox freezes and stares straight at me. Snapped twigs are a dead give-away. Arthritis gleans my strength.

‘Get goin’ little fella.’ Mentally, I try forcing him to move on. He vanishes into damp weeds. Not one blade bent at his passing.

I search the area through the fourth generation binoculars. My partner is invisible. I hope. The plants are over eight feet high. Almost ready to harvest. The garden’s guarded with nets that almost hide it from view. Almost.

I feel the familiar badge poke my gut. Time waits for no man. I wonder who’ll show for my retirement party. Thoughts of Belize, and Anna, invade the job at hand.

Another twig snaps. It’s no fox.

I rise slow — easy. The cold end of the AK-47 steals my soul.