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Prose

Uncle Gerrald

The circle near the park was at a standstill. Drivers actually got of their cars to investigate why we were all stuck. I don’t know if it would have made a difference. He was seemingly comatose in the backseat of the Town Car. I wanted to find out why we weren’t moving, but my first responsibility was to check on him. I got out and opened the door and checked his pulse. I could not feel one on his wrist, so I tried his neck. Nothing. He was smaller somehow, now that he was lifeless and crumpled on the worn leather seat.

Cars honked and people yelled indiscriminately horrible things at me as they inched around our stopped car. I was standing by the trunk, staring off into the distance, just trying to fathom what I should do. I’d nearly made it to the hospital, but that wasn’t going to do him any good now. Everyone would think I’d killed him even though I knew I was the only one in the whole rotten family tree that tried to help him. He was a right bastard, no doubt, but I’m reasonably sure dying in your own acidic juices on the backseat of a 1993 Lincoln Town Car is not the fate anyone deserves.

Traffic was now flowing around the car at a normal clip. I walked all the way around the car and stopped again at the trunk and propped myself up on it. I was defeated. Looking down at my feet for answers, I heard a booming voice over the din of the cars. “Mister. Need some help?”

© 2021 Jeff E. Brown. All rights reserved.

By jebrownwriter

Houston, TX-based Writer and Photographer. Proud pet rescuer who spends nearly all his money on them.

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