The gun shots ring out in the night.
There is nothing I can do but hide and wait for this hell to be over.
When the morning comes I’ll leave this place forever, become a refugee, someone trying to escape this carnage.
Maybe some day I’ll be free at last.
Scott Gambon is a student at Orion High School in Illinois. He is 17 years old, the youngest of 4 siblings.
The girl was sick of running, then sick of hiding once she’d run.
The only person she trusted was the man in the nearby box. She never asked for a name.
As she lay there, battered, bruised, and fighting for her life, she wished she knew his name after all.
Harriet Dyer is a comedian and writer based in the UK.
Sarah donned her sunglasses and meanest look.
As she rode the bus into town, she checked her bag. Knife, gun, capsicum spray—everything was ready.
Six hours later, she headed home. Her glasses were broken, her weapons lay at the bottom of the canal, but she wore a satisfied smile.
Mark Farley eats ice cream with a teaspoon. He once got run over by a horse.
Jogging. Madman followed lady. Knifed her.
Rushed to her.
I held her wounds.
Stay with me. Name?
No! Love you.
I love you, Carole. Stay.
Sirens. Who called?
Carole stayed. My wife of 1,827 days. Debilitated. In wheelchair.
Nick Armbrister wrote this story.
Tessie tasered Tyler, then taped Tyler’s trap, then… then she just gave up on the idea of teaching the two-timing piece of trash a lesson right there, left him tightly tied up in the trunk, took his thick wallet, and trotted to the mall for the traditional post-breakup shopping spree.
Joey never received a classical education so he doesn’t know Greek or Latin, but a Greek woman did tell him this once: θάλασσα καὶ πῦρ καὶγυνή, κακὰ τρία. Rough translation: “Fear the sea, fire, and women.”
The tension was so thick, you could cut it with a knife.
So she did. Blood surged into the air, splattering everything with
Rorschach patterns some detective would fail to analyze.
She pocketed the knife. No sense leaving it behind. Having an incomplete knife set would really drive her crazy.
He looked down and saw a spot of red slowly fanning out in all directions.
He finally realised he didn’t understand the meaning of anything as everything turned red. He sat down to contemplate his life while his head hung heavily towards his chest.
And the red continued to grow.
Connell wrote this in response to random and unprovoked acts of violence.
She tossed sleeplessly all night, shooting his skull off. In her head, he was dead thirty times.
The next morning she ran down the road to where their mansion stood. She waited until he showed up at the window.
She huffed back home and pulled out the knife.
Megha Nayar is a 26-year old Communications professional from India, who has forever loved and lived for the written word. She is an independent writer/editor and regularly contributes to contests, anthologies, and literary magazines. She is also currently writing her first collection of short stories.
A drip from the ceiling splatters onto his forehead.
“His eyes… They open,” is heard in broken English.
A fuzzy recollection of the previous night arises.
A fight with burglars in the hotel room upstairs.
A knife flashed and bodies fell.
Another drip, blood… But whose, and why the handcuffs?
John B Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
Janie wanted hugs. She demanded them. She pestered me for them.
I hugged her but my arms began to hug her tighter. Tighter. And finally, too tight.
Mary doesn’t need hugs. She just wants a beautiful yard. She buys me shears and spades. Sharp and heavy tools.
She pesters me.
Joe Malone is living alone in Africa in a mud house. His blog is here: http://joem18b.wordpress.com/.