He fell with a certain sideways grace. Thud.
Slow, black blood congealing.
The gun, black, hot. Heavy.
I sat. Waiting.
I dropped the gun.
The weight stayed.
“Police, drop the weapon!”
That’d teach that bastard, with his wandering eye,
Written for BeKindRewrite’s prompt, Wandering Eye, and for the Trifecta Writing Challenge prompt: Grace (third definition as usual. Comments and criticism always welcome!