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The Last Shot

The rhythmic creaking of the rocking chair broke the silence of the moment. The chair's weathered features matched those of the old man rocking quietly. The size of the chair seemed mammoth for his emaciated frame, wasted away by age. Rocking in the chair was his favorite pastime, sitting on the shaded front porch of the family farmhouse, surrounded by the prairie grassland stippled with wildflower pastels. He barely noticed the silhouette of the town sitting on the wooded horizon, its church and adjacent cemetery long forgotten. Sometimes he would nap but mostly he liked watching the swallows flit around the porch or the manic chipmunks madly chasing each other.