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I’m Still Here
by A. T. Greenblatt

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As I stare down the barrel of my grandfather’s old rifle, I wonder if I’ve ever had any luck at all. The damn thing wasn’t even supposed to work anymore, but the gaping hole my sister has just blown above the dresser says otherwise.

Strangely, I’m not scared. My old self would’ve been panicking, scrambling for an idea—if only to prolong the inevitable for a little longer. But I’m tired of worrying about my death, so I look at the rifle and try to smile, because acceptance is sort of a nice change of pace.
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