Gloria,

I really liked the ending. It left the reader hanging instead of just artificially resolving the plot. The dialogue is good -- more dialogue would be a good way to tell the story instead of using narrative. 

I learn from reading good authors, and one of the best at writing convincing dialogue is Harry Turtledove, who mainly writes fantasy or alternative history books. You might enjoy his Guns of the South or Ruled Britannia. The latter novel is an alternative fiction in which the Spanish Armada successfully conquers England and Shakespeare joins the resistance. Turtledove manages to incorporate lines from Shakespearean plays into the dialogue without them seeming contrived. 

Great Job! 

Another Typical Night

We woke to loud banging on the front door, so I fumbled in the nightstand for the pistol and pulled a robe over my PJs. My wife crept up behind me as I bent down to look through the peephole at a disheveled blonde in sweats. She didn’t seem threatening, so with my wife peering over my shoulder, I cracked open the door. The woman pushed her way inside, grabbed my wife’s hands, and started crying hysterically—leaving in her wake a faint scent of ‘perfume de Budweiser’. After a look from my wife, I went outside to let her deal with the craziness.

Luckily, I had stashed a pack in my robe, so I fired up a Marlboro and sat in a rocking chair. Lately I’ve been trying to cut back, but my wife had quit months ago so I wasn’t allowed to smoke inside my own home. My nerves settled down as I pulled the smoke deep inside my lungs.

Street lights softly illuminated the residential lane. But the porch roof cast a shadow so the only thing anyone could see of me was the glow when I puffed on the cigarette.

Down the street I could see some idiot running from house to house, banging on doors. One by one, porch lights turned on as people briefly spoke to the person. Then he would cross the street, wake up some more people at a couple of houses, and then go back to the other side of the street. One by one, porch lights lit in a steady progression towards my house.

He came running across my yard but slid to a stop when he realized I was sitting there.

I shifted the pistol onto my lap and loudly asked, “Whatta you want?”

Startled by my presence, he stood stock-still. Sweat dripped down his bare chest and his beer-belly bulged over the waistband of his jeans.

“Have you seen my wife?” he asked.

“Don’t know,” I answered. “What’s she look like?”

“Blond hair, tall, wearing blue sweats.”

I cut him off, “I saw a woman like that in Walmart yesterday. Was that her?”

He just stood there, befuddled by my answer. The sour smell of the alcohol wafted from his body as he took a few seconds to figure out what to say.

“Nah man, she came running down this way from my house the next street over. Have you seen her?”

“I’m just sitting here peaceful-like having a smoke, and I ain’t seen nobody but you,” I lied. “But you’re starting to git on my nerves, so you’d better leave. Maybe you’ll find her down the street, so just git outta my yard.”

Reluctantly he backed away, crossed the street and banged on another door. I didn’t have to show him my pistol, but he probably suspected I was armed. Most of my neighbors had guns of some sort in the house, so it was likely he’d already stared down the barrel of a gun.

After he had gone to a few more doors, blue lights came down the street. He stood right in the middle of the road and flagged down the deputy. Briefly he spoke to the officer through the driver-side window, and then voluntarily got into the back seat. Two more cruisers arrived, and the three officers huddled on the sidewalk.

The multiple rotating blue lights cast a surreal quality over the scene. Other people came out on their porches to see what was going on.

Two of the officers walked towards my house, so I stuffed the pistol out of sight under the seat cushion and rubbed the butt out in the ashtray. As they came up the walkway, one of them shined a flashlight at my house.

“Get that damn light out of my eyes!” I snapped.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was just trying to read the numbers on your porch post. Somebody at this house called 911 to report a domestic disturbance.”

That sounded like something my wife would do, so I said, “Go right inside; they’re in the living room.”

I lit another cigarette as the older of the two stepped inside; the younger one stood in the yard and just stared at me. Then I heard the backdoor slam and the blonde came running around the side of the house. The cop standing in the yard darted over to intercept her. She tried to change direction and tripped over her own feet. Quick as a cat, he put a hand on her back to keep her down and cuffed her. The older deputy came back out the front door with my wife right behind him, and he explained the deal to us.

“These two are separated and she has been staying with her new boyfriend. Tonight she keyed her husband’s car, and he woke up when she started to bust the windows. He came out in his undershorts to stop her, and she had to run off because she'd dropped the keys to her car. She got a head start because he had to put pants on before he could chase after her. We’re gonna carry them both in and let the magistrate sort it out.”

I said, “At least you had a little excitement to make time go by.”

“Nah,” he said. “It’s just another typical night.”

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Art often imitates life. Several years ago, a neighbor rang our doorbell late at night. She had stormed out after an argument with her hubby, but then she didn’t know what to do. My wife talked to her awhile until she calmed down and went home.

Another time, a teenager knocked on our door, claiming that his father was chasing him to beat his butt. I wouldn’t even let him in the house because he was so hyper, so we sat on the porch while my wife called the cops. His father never showed up, and the deputies carried him home to resolve the issue.