Ore
H. V. Cramond

My daughter and I live outside of Zion by ourselves.

I have a gun.

I know how to use it.

I know when to use it.

I hunt and target shoot.  I should enter the Silver Dollar Shoot Out.

One night at two in the morning, someone pounds on the back door.

I walk to the kitchen.

A kid is pounding on the door, taking his whole shoulder to it.

"Let me in, let me in.  I need…I need… the phone," he says, pressing his narrow, bearded face into the window.

I say, "Do you want me to call the police?"

"No."

"Well, who do you want me to call?"

He mumbles a phone number and I call it.

The woman who answers is confused, so I hang up right away.  I come back to the door.  I see he's not wearing pants.

His goat legs tense and twitch.  He places his aquiline nose against the keyhole and sniffs.

I call 911.

He pounds the door again.  "Let me in. I need. I need."

I point my shotgun at the door and cock it so he can hear the sound.  It's not like I want to shoot people, but I could if I had to.

The operator says "Don't let him in, don't let him in!"

He stamps his hooves against the porch's warped wood.

When the police arrive, the kid is gone.  There aren't any people living nearby, so he must have been hiding in the woods.  Or maybe he had a car.

He must have watched the house, saw two girls by themselves, smelled our menses, and waited until he couldn't stop his need.

If he returns, I will shoot.

***

H. V. Cramond teaches at St. Augustine College and East-West University and writes reviews for the Feminist Review (http://feministreview.blogspot.com). She is working on a novel at a poet's pace. Read more of her writing at www.hvcramond.com