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7-11

I don't feel lucky here at all. In fact I feel pretty nervous, like something bad is just waiting to happen. I feel that any moment someone is going to pull a gun, hold up the store, take us all hostage.

I only came in here to buy some motor oil for my leaking Suzuki Sidekick, but I can see the body fallen in the bakery aisle clutching a loaf of bread. I can see the plastic gallon jug of milk held by that guy coming around the corner of the packaged snack cake display exploding into blood. I can hear a woman screaming except that I'm the only woman here.

Ahead of me in line an old black man in his Sunday best is scratching instant games with a yellowed uncut fingernail. Another man, thin and jittery and smelling of alcohol, is looking at his losing magic million tickets and complaining to the Indian guy behind the counter that he's been gypped. It's supposed to be a joke but the smiles are all tight and fixed and no one is laughing.

Like I said I only came to buy some motor oil for my leaking Suzuki. I really don't feel like dying under the case where a few stale bagels and a last powdered donut will never be chosen, where the greasy hot dogs roll for eternity.

I feel so nervous and paranoid seeing myself on the television monitor above the cash register that if I owned one I think I might pull a gun myself and start shooting, aiming at nothing in particular, shooting until I ran out of ammunition, killing us all in some wild, mistaken attempt at self-defense.

Story by:

Meeah Williams

walkingeyeball.blogspot.com

9 September 2013