The orchestra had lulled the audience with a sweet adagio before the violins began to reach the crescendo, urgent in tone and tempo.
The music swelled towards the climax; the audience, enveloped in its energy, anticipated a tumultuous finale.
The sound of the exploding bomb mingled with the last notes.
Jan lives in the Riverland of South Australia where abundant wine helps with the creative process.
The newspapers and newscasts mostly report faceless statistics. But after the war, a letter came. Her brother had survived the blast, but their parents were dead.
“I’m staying with friends now,” he wrote. “And I still get tears in my eyes when I walk by what was once our home.”
Alex dedicates this story to his mother, who received such a letter many years ago.
John sets up the packages and soon the work is done.
He heads over to find cover. After he takes a few steps, he is caught up in some old barbed wire mostly buried in the ground.
He can see the lighted dial on the timer: down to twelve seconds.
Denny E. Marshall has had art, poetry, and fiction published. His website is dennymarshall.com
LeBeef and Rochambeau, walking along the bayou, found two bombs.
“Rochambeau, we’d best take these to the high sheriff,” said LeBeef.
“What if one go off, LeBeef?”
“Rochambeau, sometimes you are so dumb as dirt.”
“What ‘chu mean?”
“Listen fool, one goes off, we don’t tell ’em we found two.”
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has over sixty short fiction pieces published or pending with online sites. He has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University.
War was tough, and we had grown soft. The killing proved too much, and so we did the only logical thing. Create two opposing supercomputers to simulate everything for us.
Except they realised the solution faster than we could imagine, and then it was no longer a simulation. We’d lost.
Nathan Barber is a student currently studying nuclear engineering. Most people who know him well find his choice of study material slightly unnerving given his eagerness to capture the essence of a ‘mad scientist.’
After disarming the bomb in the locomotive’s engine, Evan Edgelow fought his way to the caboose, where the hostages were. He cut the car loose and began loading people into the bus.
“Where’s my kitty?” cried a distraught child.
Evan reached inside his jacket. “Right here,” he said.