Nothing ever absolutely has to happen. The gun doesn't have to be fired. When our hero sits on the edge of his bed contemplating the pistol on his nightstand, you have to believe he might not use it. Then the theatre is sunk in blackness. The audience is a log waiting to be split open. The faint scuff of feet. Objects are picked up, shuffled away. Other things are put down. Based on the hushed sounds you guess: a bed, some walls, a dresser. You feel everything shift. You sense yourself being picked up, set down. A cone of light cracks overhead. The audience's eyes flicker toward you like droplets of water.
Copyright © 2012 by Matt Rasmussen. Used with permission of the author.