Wrangell Mountain Air

Flash Fiction

Let’s say Jenski handed you the gun. That big ol’ revolver’s in your right hand, not mine. It’s pulling your arm out of your shoulder, heavier than regret, and Jenski’s pointing at the milk crate strapped to the cargo bay floor and saying, Sit there. If one of these horses so much as twitches, shoot it. You look at him, wide-eyed, and he says, They star…