FLASH FICTION: The shot that missed MLK

A boy, a dog, and history unwritten.

Memphis, April 4, 1968

Day was slipping toward dusk, shadows stretching long across Mulberry Street.

Dr. King stood on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel, checking notes from his jacket pocket. Beside him, Rev. Ralph Abernathy smiled, holding the car keys, ready to go. In the parking lot below, Rev. Jesse Jackson waited, joking with friends as they all prepared to leave for dinner at the home of a local supporter.

In the flophouse across the street, James Earl Ray steadied his rifle at a second-floor window and squinted into the scope.

On the street below, a boy walks his beagle, Beau, on a frayed leash.

A squirrel darts. Beau lunges. The leash slips free.

“Stop!” the boy shouts.

Ray flinches.

At the corner, a Chevy backfires.

King jerks toward the sound, crouching low.

Ray yanks the trigger. The bullet smashes brick, red dust bursting across the wall.

Abernathy grabs Dr. King, pulling him inside as panicked shouts fill the lot below.

Ray curses and runs.

The boy catches Beau, drops to his knees, and holds him close. The dog pants, tail wagging, warm in his arms.

The squirrel has slipped away, as has Dr. King.

Smiling with relief, the boy carries Beau toward home, never knowing how close history has come to breaking in that last light of day.