Shoot

After nearly an hour barefoot on the tarmac, and warm from the sweltering heat, the grimy shadow of a dusty crescent a fraction of an inch from his leathery skin, realized that in life, there are no practice shots. Every muscle sculpted for this purpose fixated on the orb he felt burdened to make proud. He refused to let the orb’s palpable impatience damper his hyper focus but the uncontrollable toe-tapping that ensued was unmistakably a feeble attempt to soothe his nerves. Serene brain ripples recorded on the machine, detected from sensors in the blacktop, looked like sine waves interspersed with QRS complex spikes of sheer terror bleeding though, that the equipment thought was within the margin of error. But he was more than well acquainted with the simple concept that he had absolutely no margin of error when it came time for his shot.


S.K.