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Yesterday when I last seen him, he was at the telephone booth making a phone
call to a friend-not a close friend, you know the loose term we use when
often describing someone we know practically but not for sure, entirely.
"One sack of what?"-I could barely hear the speakered tone of a womans loud
shreaking through the receiver-and that was all he said, or rather, she said.
I couldn't witness this a fact, for I didn't physically see who was talking on
the other end, but I know Harry, he is my friend, and when he misconstrues
what he hears as funny, well then, it is usually not his fault-I extended
my trust this far with him, because of the way he talks. The men showed up
in groups of three asking the same question-"Where is Harry?"-I didn't know
where he was, or what happened, if anything-that is how I felt, guilty.
"He is my friend!"-I could resist no more, out it came. The room stood still
and one man almost spilt himself, not coffee-tea.
After silence left the room, I expected to be mugged somehow-like maybe a knot
on the skull-or worse a wrestle to the ground, but just "the" looks. One man
decided after scratching his head a bit to speak in a language that was yet
even more unfamiliar to me-he said it like this: "DJKJK GLHJ GHFIL GIlKP"
That is how I read it in my head. I deciphered it after a few minutes, and
realized it wasn't a nice thing, he wanted me to pay for my mistake-I thought
which one. "I am awfully sorry for the tea-you know, scarring you with such
a loud outburst"-I totally missed the attention of everyone now, I think they
wanted an answer-for where is Harry. I knew something was seriously wrong.
I imported this picture into a file of "Unknown things" in my head, and placed
it on shelf 399, that is where I store them until I can see them clear.
"I want to leave, and find my friend"-said. "A womans voice, old did
she sound to you son?"-said the first man. "I am not a mathemetician, and I
can't be for sure, but maybe Harry would know that fact, sir"-I wanted really
bad to leave. This day was getting darker, and the sun was beginning to fade
out. I was wondering why aren't they combing the area if his disappearance
was more important. I doubt I can be of any service, or maybe I was a suspect.
This I couldn't picture in my mind, I would rather sweat-at least they would
see something that they are-like me that is-afraid.
After a long walk in the woods, I decided to return home and explain to my
mother why I was late. She left me a key around my neck, so I never worried
about the burglars getting in-I had the only key. Besides Mr. Cromwell the
neighbor keeps watch from his front window-he says someday "a ship" is coming
for him, to take him to meet Isabella. She must be worth the wait. So with
this said to myself, I let imagination in, and that is where I can relax and
not put pictures of thieves climbing in-out my bedroom stealing everything.
Two days later they found Harry. He was shot by a bullet. It went through his
body and into a tree. I remember sometimes where I was, and what I was doing
but Harry was my friend. I wouldn't do anything to harm him. At least, I
don't remember if I did. I called mom on the telephone-the phone booth-
"You sack of shit!"-she was angry. Very angry when I told her of the accident.



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The following comments are for "Who shot Harry?"
by Wetice

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