THE ROOKERY, by Kurt Newton“How’s your fingers, son?”
Poppa made sure to wear his gloves. I left mine at home.
“Fine, sir, I guess.”
My teeth chattered. The gun felt like ice in my hands. I slid my grip and held it by the wood stock.
Poppa didn’t have much patience with forgetting things. Poppa had been in the wars. In the wars if you forgot something it could be your death. Poppa called it a life lesson. I didn’t understand how dying could be a life lesson.
Poppa stopped ahead of me. I was watching the leaves and sticks blur under my feet and nearly walked into him.
“Do you hear that, son?”
I turned my ear to the cold air. All I heard was the rustle of my jacket and my breathing. But then I heard something else. A strange kind of noise like a hundred different murmurs sounding at o
