Estate by Eric Hawthorn

He kept a Viking battle-axe on hooks above the sofa. He kept a swarm of throwing knives above the fireplace and a Roman javelin by the door. He kept well-polished hunting knives, katanas, broadswords, cutlasses. In a kitchen drawer, he kept a Glock 9. On top of the fridge, a box of Corn Flakes.

He kept glinting rows of switchblades, Bowie knives, daggers. On the inside of his bedroom door, throwing stars clinked on little pegs.

He kept a gun rack in the closet for his Winchesters and Remingtons, rifles and shotguns. He kept an M16, an AK47, an Uzi. He kept his handguns on foam-padded shelves: Colt revolvers, Smith and Wessons, a Desert Eagle, four different Magnums. Every clip full, every handle to the right.           

In his nightstand, he kept a pack of smokes and some magazines to remind him of women.

He kept his clothes in a hamper and his ammo in the dresser. Boxes and bags of 9mm, 10mm, .38s, .44s, .357s, hollow points, shotgun shells. In the bottom drawer, he kept a folded belt of .50 caliber rounds for the Browning on its tripod in the corner. He kept watch by the window, the curtain pulled back only enough for a narrow slot of glass.

He kept a single potted plant on the windowsill. The plant remains, creeping up the curtain in dark, leafy spirals, winding past the fabric. It presses its leaves to the glass, gasping for light.

© 2012 Eric Hawthorn

Eric Hawthorn is a native of Philadelphia, where he teaches poetry to kids and works as a writer and researcher for a real estate firm. Recently, his work has been published in Monkeybicycle, The Big Jewel, and Gloom Cupboard.

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