The Shot

 

He missed the shot. And he didn’t have much time.
Filed with anger and regret, from his own actions
He took his tool, and retreated to the left side of the room
Threw it over his head, gripping it so hard
His knuckles were white with fury.
He brought it down, so close to the ground, sighing,
He knew what he was about to do couldn’t be undone.
And then, with a deep, exasperated breath of passion
Slowly brought his tool up to his face, an empty expression.
He raised it to his face, and pressed the
Dark, cool, black metal to his forehead.
Then pointed it at the figure in red. And then…
He took a few shots at the figure on the right,
And there was an explosion, of light.
He was running out of time.
He turned back to the left, and, without taking a breath
He took… the picture.

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