Sunday I spotted an elephant destroying my cabbage garden so I shot the monster dead. Moments later, six clowns in midget cars bumped onto my lawn. They were armed with rainbow parasols.
“I’ve had this dream,” my wife said.
I cocked my rifle. “How’s it end?”
“Not good,” she said.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble”. Visit BobThurber.net.
“Hand it over,” he snarls again, the gun still leveled at me.
I stand firm, gripping the briefcase, a defiant smirk on my face. “No.” I can tell the gun is not loaded.
BLAM! Blood, a burning in my shoulder. The briefcase drops to the ground.
I’ve been wrong before.
Chris Burdett is a husband, father, writer, photographer, and college English instructor who lives in Loganville, GA.
Jeff said it was a silly toy. It was a wooden gun from my halloween costume. I went as a pirate that year.
Jeff always laughed at me. He said the gun could do no damage. I was the one laughing when I hit him in the head with it.
John has interests that range from guitars to the Incredible Hulk. He was born and raised in St. Louis, Missouri and still lives there to this day. You can hear him on the weekly podcast at www.comicbookshowdown.com.
A man sits in an overstuffed chair in the middle of a room. There is nothing else in the room except for about twenty dogs, most of them barking. There is a loaded revolver beside the chair.
Once a day the man gets up and shoots one of the dogs.
Richard Pannbacker is a retired biochemist/teacher/sheepfarmer living in Manhattan, Kansas. He writes short stories, short short stories and still shorter seven-line flash fiction. He is the winner of the 22nd Annual “Kansas Voices” short story contest and has had short stories accepted by Pill Hill Press and The Right-Eyed Deer.
One shot is all it takes. He is dead.
Her blouse is wet with blood. Her cigarette rests between her swollen lips as she drags him through the dead leaves with a shovel in hand. She doesn’t cry until she drops his limp body in the hole.
His collar jingles.
Adam is a student at Rowan University and plans on graduating in December 2010. He is an avid writer, concentrating on contemporary adult fiction and concrete poetry. He is currently working on a collection of selected poems, revising and perfecting the prose. His website is adamgpoetry.tumblr.com.
“The next shooter up is One-Eyed Joe, who has selected a well-balanced Luger handgun. Here he goes…
“Oh! Sorry folks, no luck yet.
“Now we have Drunken Donny Davis. He’s really waving that twelve-gauge around! Let’s see if he can put a hole in the broad side of the barn.”
The heifer chewed her cud.
That funny one-legged man stood in front of her, holding some kind of metal tube and balancing precariously on a crutch.
Now he was pointing the metal thing at her forehead. It smelled delicious.
Later, in the farm house, George softly rubbed his bandaged hand.
Cock gun, point gun, pull trigger. Only three simple steps separated George from vengeance. The stupid cow stood and blinked its heavy-lidded eyes, oblivious.
This isn’t difficult, George chided himself. Cock, point, pull.
He couldn’t do it.
It wasn’t his conscience. It was just hard to balance on one leg.