I pretend I don’t hear gun shots afar off.
Fourth of July’s in three weeks. It’s just fireworks. Drunk frat brothers shooting off exploding rockets for practice.
But I back inside just to be safe, close the sliding glass door to the balcony and lock it.
Money and privilege doesn’t mean a thing these days. You can be a United States congressman and still be targeted. How many presidents absorbed the bullet? How many of them lived?
I’m only here for the weekend though. Be back in Chi-Town by Monday, where I recognize the gang bangers who shoot me.
word count: 100
Friday Fictioneers challenges you to write a story in 100 words or less using the provided photo prompt as inspiration. Click the froggy icon to read other stories and add your own.