Billy found a plastic rifle in the alley and pointed it at a bird on the fence. When he pulled the trigger the rifle made no noise but the bird dropped dead.
The bird dropped on his side of the fence. He ran over to it, and looked closely at it, its feathers somewhat ruffled, its eyes closed, not moving. It was a common starling; there was still some sparkle in its feathers.
His father had a real rifle and had always told Billy, “Never point a gun at anything you aren’t willing to shoot.” Now he had done it. He hadn’t needed to kill the bird.
Billy wondered. Was this a random coincidence, something about the plastic rifle, or a power that he suddenly possessed?
Billy pointed his finger like a pistol at a trash can in the alley and stopped. He had “Bang” on his lips but he was afraid to say it.