My hands are sore. One good finger; the rest are in pain.
I swing my legs out of bed. My knees hardly work. Creak. Moan. Crack.
Once I get moving, the joints will be okay.
My latest target is in Italy.
One good finger. That’s all it takes.
Henry lives in Somerset in the UK, which is at the moment still part of the European Union. He eats a lot of toast.
Target confirmed, advance fee accepted, Robert dresses that night to kill. Black pants, black turtleneck, black greasepaint covering every inch of face and hands. Stealthy, he waits in shrubbery. Hours pass. Lights dim. Robert heeds nature’s call at last.
Sirens erupt: the alarm!
He’d never considered greasepaint below the belt.
Alexandra Renwick’s literary pulp fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen’s & Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazines, The Exile Book of New Canadian Noir, and Imaginarium: The Best Canadian Speculative Writing. When not inhabiting urban wetlands in Austin, Texas, she can be found curating a crumbling historic manor near downtown Ottawa. More at alexcrenwick.com.
Martha, daughter of the hated sheriff, was seated at the window of his forest cabin. She stared vacantly at the shining glimmer of sunlight on metal or something a distance away.
“Must be a soda can.” She jumped off the stool. “I’m thirsty.”
The bullet splintered the wall mirror instead.
Natisha Parsona is a South African retiree who lives on the South Coast KwaZulu-Natal. She has been published in not too many magazines and has a children’s book on Amazon. She also has a short story in a chapbook published in South Africa.
Patience. One round, one chance. No errors are allowed. Tranquility. The jarring of the heart’s voice deters and distracts. If you still its wild fluttering, nothing is impossible. Steadfastness. Be ready for the ensuing chaos. It’s time.
The weapon fires; the crowd scatters; the politician falls; the mission is complete.
This Guest Writer story is from Zachary “Nomadic” Williams, who notes that he is not trying to suggest any specific situation or any specific person. He just had assassinations on the brain at the time of writing. At some point or another, don’t we all?