Efrén, riding the mower, saw the spoon, the light wood standing out against the lawn, and killed the motor.
Gilo, trimming the hedges, heard the mower die and turned. Gilo the crew chief because he spoke the best English and had a driver’s license.
Efrén waved him over, pointed to the spoon. Something chunky dried on it, cookie dough maybe, plus a rust-colored stain on the handle. A butterfly landed on the stain, probed the chunks a few times, and flew away.
Gilo whistled loud enough that Jesús heard him over the leaf blower and cut his hand across his throat.
The three men stood sweating in the humid air listening to the insects screaming in the sudden summer silence.
Efrén sat the mower, watched Gilo walk up to the front door.
Gilo taking his gloves off on the way, checking if his hands were clean. Gilo knocking, the door swinging open part way.
Gilo, eyes wide, crossing himself and backing off the steps fast, pulling his cellphone out of his pocket and punching three numbers.
Jim’s Taco Fund (Trying not to be a starving artist)
If you’ve ever tossed some coins to a subway saxophonist or a juggler working a stoplight, please consider slinging a few bucks my way — $5 covers a day’s worth of tacos. Or, for $3, buy me a coffee!
Prompted by Giulietta Passarelli
Leave a comment with a living thing, an inanimate object, and a location and I will write a story based on your prompt and tag you when I publish it.
Photo by Charisse Kenion on Unsplash
Hi Jim. I didn't quite get it. Did somebody kill somebody with a wooden spoon?