We cheerleaders chanted to the helmeted heroes: “Kick ’em in the stomach, kick ’em in the head! We want blood, red, red, red!”
A year later my quarterback got shot through the helmet in Vietnam and I was chanting to LBJ, asking how many kids he had killed that day.
Tom Hazuka has published three novels and over sixty-five short stories in Chariton Review, Florida Review, Quarterly West, Puerto del Sol, etc. He has edited or co-edited seven anthologies, including Flash Fiction, Flash Fiction Funny, and Flash Nonfiction Funny. Tom teaches literature and fiction writing at Central Connecticut State University. See more at tomhazuka.com.
Let him die. The authorities will see. Can you carry the world’s weight with a back full of lead? I see you. Stranger. Will you overthrow them? You tend his wounds, and now you’re the dying one. But another comes. Stranger. Tending your wounds. Perhaps you have overthrown much more.
Michael Hilton lives in Irving, Texas, where he watches a lot of TV.
Beneath the majestic Tora Bora Mountains he pulled the trigger, then trailed his quarry into a nearby cave. He leaned over and peered into the man’s dying eyes, and was startled when the Arab’s bloody hand rose slowly and gently touched his cheek.
He decided this was his last kill.
Henry F. Tonn is a soon-to-be-retired psychologist who once wrote an excellent novel about a woman with multiple personality disorder who became a serial killer. It had all the qualities that the reading public would presumably like. He webs at henrytonn.com
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.