Nine Flash Fiction Pieces

A lot of these flash fiction stories are from the writer’s workshop that I was attending. I had been trying to submit these to websites or magazines, but it actually takes a bit of effort to hunt down places that allow a low word count, that are looking for that genre, and that are accepting submissions at all. It’s energy spent, taken away from the act of writing itself, or at least looking to submit my other longer, short stories. I am still writing other stories, my most recently finished story was about 16,000 words, and I am still pursing publication for the longer pieces. But I just want to get these off my plate and share them here.

Without further ado, starting from the more innocuous stories to the more macabre, here they are.

Fifteen Minutes

Note: this story was written in 15 minutes in a workshop, which also clearly influenced the title.

Fifteen minutes. That’s all I needed. I waited inside the door, and I could hear them outside. A giant stone blocked our path, and I liked to think that I was like Jesus inside his tomb, the giant wheel of ancient rock wedged between me and the outside world.

They were already starting to pry and push at it, and I hoped my shuttle would be charged before they figured out how to roll my lifesaving hunk of granite out of the way. There wasn’t much I could do staring at the circular door. And listening to them scraping and hooting outside wasn’t doing anything but raising my anxiety.

I turned around and looked at the shuttle lying in the cave. It was at an odd angle, as the ground wasn’t made for landing a shuttle here, but, at the time, I thought this would have been a discreet place to land. Little did I know that they were always watching this mountain and viewed me as something sacrilegious.

The council forbade me from coming here. But I came anyway. And they were pissed. Not the council, although I’m sure they would be too. But the ones outside, as soon as I stepped outside the cave, started shooting at me. And with old-fashioned guns. Who even uses those anymore?

I just needed a few minutes for the internal fusion reactor to store enough juice for me to get off this stupid planet. But then I started to smell smoke. I whirled around to look at the cave door. The savages outside rocked it back and forth, but the smoke wasn’t coming from there.

I dreaded it; I didn’t even want to turn back around. But I slowly forced my head to twist, swiveling like an owl, and I could see there was indeed smoke spewing out of the reactor chambers, attached on the outside of the shuttle.

Those damn cavemen must have gotten off a shot that ricocheted into my ship! Bastards. The shuttle could handle space debris at 0.7c, but only when the propulsion shield was active. I rushed inside the docking bay and slammed my hand on the emergency shutdown button. The reactor stopped humming, and all I could hear was my own exasperated breath underpinning the scrapes and shuffles from outside.

A flash of natural light glinted from the cave. They had wedged some sort of pole in the way of the boulder. They were opening it. I didn’t have enough time to patch the hole so I could start the reactor again. But I did have time to turn on the emergency extinguishing system. Thankfully, that had its own backup battery. I didn’t need to stop a fire on my ship anymore, but it was a powerful blast, and the hose reached the door. It was almost open, so I opened the valve on the hose to knock them back. Anything to live another minute.

I expected to hear screams. Out of all the list of possibilities, I didn’t expect cheers. But they loved it. They rejoiced and sang and got naked and danced. Surreal. I finally got a good look through the partially opened door, and it became painfully clear.

Although the luddite settlers had landed on this planet generations ago to live an agrarian society, it was a blasted desert out there.

At first, I just wanted to go against the rules and visit some place forbidden. But then I had to run for my life. In the end, they appointed me, and my ship’s air-to-water generator, as a royal in the village. Annual feasts were held in my honor. I always liked the naked dancing.

The Company

The manager’s voice chimed directly into my ear speaker: “Attention Employee 016-857. You have been idle for more than three seconds. Any more will result in half-an-hour’s pay deducted.”

I was distracted, looking at Employee 129-543. Victoria. I glanced at the catwalk to see the warehouse manager glaring at me through his red optical implant. He always got like that before the boss visited from his flying mansion, above the sea of smog that enveloped the entire world.

I wanted to tell Victoria what I think of her, or at least ask her out if we ever got off at the same time. But there’s no time with the manager watching from above. I put my forklift into gear and drove off, straddling the fine line between receiving an efficiency mark for going too slow and receiving a safety mark for speeding.

“We need to increase shipments by 15 percent.” He yelled from above. His red eye could read all our vitals and work efficiency scores at a glance, and we hurried to move pallets around slightly quicker than normal.

As the manager walked back to his office, I drove alongside Victoria. She drank from a water bottle while driving her forklift. Not enough time to stop and drink safely.

She leaned over. “Remember, if you work hard and put in overtime, the manager might be able to afford another car.”

She winked at me and drove away, her chromed-arms, enhanced for heavy lifting, mesmerizing me as she turned the steering wheel.

The next day, the manager rounded up everyone in the assembly area underneath the catwalk while the boss observed from the manager’s office. The manager explained how some unscrupulous actors were trying to organize a union. That would not stand.

Later, Victoria met up with me in the break room on my single three-minute break of my twelve-hour shift. “Pretty stifling, huh?” I nodded. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we had more rights so—”

The door flew open and the manager stormed in. No doubt he had been listening with hidden mics.

“We’ve already canned four people, and if you open your mouth about a union, it’s gonna become five real quick.” He jabbed her in the chest. “Need I remind you that your implants are company owned? We will repossess them and you’ll be nothing but a cripple.”

Victoria said nothing and just glared at him. My three minutes were up, so l left the room.

When I got to work the next morning, barely perceptible through the smog, chanted a crowd of people outside.

Victoria and several others marched in a picket line. The manager observed from his office window. I had only been watching for a few minutes when the manager hung up the phone. Only minutes later, union busters fell from a heli-ship, slamming the ground like oversized hail.  More machine than human, their implants fortified their bones and enhanced reaction speeds. Our implants helped lift heavy loads, but we weren’t quick.

The busters swept through the thin line, and several protestors hit the ground to the crunch of bone and dura-chrome.

I don’t know why it happened, but right as a buster was about to crush Victoria’s head in as she lay on the pavement, already bleeding, the weaponized human stuttered. The buster twitched long enough for Victoria to roll out from under him, snatch his baton, and smash the side of his head.

We both fled along with several other protestors.

The buster Victoria hit had died. There was no fuss about the dead workers at the hands of the busters, but one dead buster and every police unit in town looked for Victoria.

I thought about taking her to my apartment, but the police would search there since I had interacted with her. So I brought her to my aunt’s place in the pseudo-countryside. She was a sweet, aged lady from a time when things were different. She knew to ask no questions. Victoria’s atrophied muscles could barely support her own weight, and I needed to tend to her. Her self-loathing, yet beautiful green eyes were hard to look into, but there was no choice after the company had remotely deactivated her leg and arm implants. This was not how I imagined us getting close, but I am going to care for her. And I am going after the company and the manager.

It’s Getting Bigger

I don’t see him often, and it feels like I have nothing else to do when he’s not around. Sometimes I wonder if I could have done something different with my life. Or if not something different, at least with someone else. Maybe I could be in a better place? These are the sort of silly thoughts that go through my mind when he isn’t with me.

But when he’s with me, that’s what I have been waiting for.

Sometimes he says something, almost like he is giving himself a pep talk. “All right, let’s do this,” he’ll say, or something to that effect, as he enters the room. Usually he’s quiet though. Sometimes he takes his time. Other times, he seems to be in a rush. Like he needs to immediately depart after doing the deed. I don’t really know what else is going on in his life.

He enters the room. I am ready.

He stands in front of me. He looks down at me, lip slightly raised. It kind of hurts to see him with that look of disgust, but I can’t show my own emotions. I must retain a serene expression.

Today is a leisurely day, and he takes his time unbuckling his pants. He lets his pants and underwear fall into a heap at his ankles. He takes off nothing else. I can see him, the curves of his body with all his body hair. He is not shy.

He exhales, and with little fanfare, his skin touches mine. It’s cold in the room, and his warmth is a welcome relief. I savor the sensation his skin brings and how it warms me. Oh, to be touched.

He grunts, and it half echoes off the featureless walls. He shifts and starts pushing. Oh God, it’s getting bigger. Sometimes it takes a while for him, but today he wastes no time. He grunts again. It’s even bigger. He repositions, and I think it’s about as big as it’s going to get today. Oh my God, it’s so big.

He sighs, and I catch it. It’s inside of me. I am feeling naughty enough today to caress his behind with my own fluids. He winks back at me.

He spreads his legs and looks down into me. “Woohee, that’s a big log!” he says with a triumphant grin on his face. This is what I live for.

He lazily drags a few sheets of paper across his hole, and he flushes down his deed for the day. I thank him with a roar of water, a maelstrom of emotion, as he buckles his pants and leaves the room. I’ll be ready again tomorrow.

Death’s Scythe

“I’ll fuck your mom,” came the whiny voice over the headset.

I had just achieved a killstreak, and someone was getting salty. A few moments later, I did a 360 no-scope and shot the punk from across the map. That triggered another tirade in a pre-pubescent tenor.

“Suck it,” I yelled into the chat as I teabagged the head of the corpse.

The noob rounded a corner after spawning, and as I mowed him down with a machine gun, he yelled out, “I’ll kill you!”

The match ended, and I thought that would be the end of it when I turned off the console. Unlike that loser, I had a job I needed to go to the next morning, and I was supposed to go out with my girlfriend after work.

My eyes were closed as I lay in bed, and I heard the familiar groan of someone walking across the floorboards of my bedroom. I scrambled to turn on my bedside lamp, and there Death stood at the foot of my bed. Holding a controller and wearing a headset, it was absurd to see a spectral menace holding gaming equipment and a bloodied scythe.

Some say playing video games is a waste of time, but my reaction speed is fire. Death swung its scythe, and I rolled out of bed. I landed on the floor, and there my answer was. An emptied Mountain Dew bottle, now filled with urine from between matches. I grabbed my personally made concoction and stood up. Death readied its scythe, and I swung my bottle, spraying death with my three-day-old piss.

Death roared and grabbed its face, dropping its scythe while it rubbed at the skull inside the shadowed hood. I grabbed the weapon and ran out the door.

Naturally, Death pursued me. But I had the upper hand. This scythe had the power to take any life, and even Death feared me. After a car chase via taxis, Death caught up with me on the beach. They said they would do anything to get their scythe back.

I considered that. “Anything?”

Turns out, Death has a credit card with no spending limit—of course it’s an Amex Black card. And when you get to know Death, they’re not so bad. We tried new foods (that only I could eat because Death consumes souls), went zip lining, skydiving, whale watching, and visited Antarctica to watch the aurora australis. We got close. We even got matching tattoos; well, I got a skull and crossbones, but Death had that naturally so they didn’t need to actually get inked.

Death confided that that they didn’t really like this job, but they were damned to have it after cheating Anubis thousands of years ago. They’ve been feeling depressed lately and have been lashing out while playing online games, but meeting me has been a game changer. And now we walk on that first beach I ran from them on, hand in hand. When I stole Death’s scythe, I was only hoping to cheat death. But it turns out I stole Death’s heart and am now cheating on my girlfriend.

Let’s Rejoice, C. Bateman

Note: This story did make it to the second round of submissions for an anthology, but it was ultimately not selected. Even though it wasn’t published, I was still pleased with making it that far.

Usually when the “Check Engine Soon” light comes on, you’ve still got some time before the car goes kaput. But C. Bateman didn’t have such luck. He cursed and got out of his truck to survey his surroundings. His neck hurt. A dirt road meandered through the dense forest to his front and back. No cell service.

After some deliberation, he grabbed his pack, leaving the half-eaten bag of chips in the passenger seat. Several hours passed, and the shadows started to stretch before him. Thankfully, before darkness fell, he reached a bigger road. Only a gravel road, but there should be some vehicles passing through. Hopefully not of the ones he just ticketed today, he laughed to himself.

He waited for something to come by, when he would stick out the ‘ol thumb and try to get a ride back to town. He waited for hours, and not a single car came by. Twilight encroached, and C. Bateman considered going back to the truck for the night.

A rustling from across the road caught his attention, and he rested his hand on hip, where his pistol hung. This was bear country, after all.

Not a bear, but a person sauntered onto the road. He looked like death would wheel him away any day now. Pale, wrinkled skin, covered with a tattered black cloth that ended right before his bare feet. He had long, frizzy black hair and eyes seemingly of no color. He approached C. Bateman with a toothy smile.

“Well hello there, young fella,” the stranger said. He held a bag of dill pickle potato chips, and he munched on one.

C. Bateman looked down, his brows furrowed. “Those are the same chips I left in my truck…”

“A pleasure to meet you too,” he cackled. The stranger leaned forward to peer at C. Bateman’s nametag on his game warden uniform. “C. Bateman.” He touched his check in pondering. “Yes, C. makes sense.” C. Bateman wanted ask what he meant by that, but the man continued. “If you are ‘C.,’ then you can simply call me ‘A.’”

C. Bateman didn’t know how to respond. Instead, he asked what he was doing here.

“Some people are trying to go places. Some need to take others to places.”

“Look, do you have a car or something? Nobody is coming through here.”

“Why don’t you signal a taxi?”

C. Bateman looked around, his hands up in exasperation. “A taxi? You must be senile. We’re in the middle of nowhere!”

“Have you tried?” He shoved a handful of chips into his mouth, grinning with crumbs on his whiskers.

C. Bateman rolled his eyes and stuck out a hand, yelling taxi!

“See there’s nobody—”

CRUNCH! A yellow taxi skidded on the gravel, stopping right in front of them.

A. smiled. “After you.”

C. Bateman blinked a few times before opening the door and climbing in.

“Shalom!” the heavyset, bearded taxi driver said. “Where ya going?”

“Oh great, a fucking Jew,” he grumbled to himself. “Look, can you just get me to town? I need to contact dispatch.”

“Sure thing!” The driver put the taxi in gear, and they drove up the gravel road. The road turned to the left, and there was immediately an intersection with a paved road. Hundreds of cars shambled either way. And behind the cars rose a concrete jungle of skyscrapers.

C. Bateman looked left and right. “What the… where are we? How are there buildings here?”

“You don’t like the city. Too many people,” A. said. It wasn’t a question.

C. Bateman fell silent, and they merged with traffic for half an hour to only get one block.

A. opened the door and got out, his cloak fluttering in the rank breeze. “This is my stop.”

The driver turned around. “Shalom, Azrael.”

C. Bateman looked between them, and he reached for the door handle.

“You still have a long way to go,” Azrael said, and he slammed the door.

C. Bateman tried his door, but it was locked. “Let me out of here!”

The driver didn’t respond, instead resuming his plodding through traffic.

C. Bateman noticed the billboard and mega-screens. Murderer written on one. Killer on another, with blood dripping down and off the screen. Corpses walked the streets like zombies. He recognized them. He looked at the driver, but now Azrael sat there looking back at him while the car seemingly drove itself.

“Your car didn’t break. You crashed and died. You have been judged, and you are going to be here for a long time.” Azrael, God of death laughed.

C. Bateman screamed and started pounding the windows, which held fest.

Scenes of mutilated bodies decorated the screens and billboard, the blood dripping down and pooling on the street below. They were scenes he witnessed—he had murdered these hikers and campers.

The original driver was back, laughing. “A life of murdering specifically Jewish campers.” The driver chuckled again. “This is going to be Hell for you.” He turned up the music in the taxi.

Hava, Nagila Hava, Nagila Hava…

A Library Meetup

Josh was lonely. But not the sort of loneliness that makes you feel empty. No, his loneliness was more akin to eating too much. Filled to the brim with loneliness, he couldn’t take any more. He wasn’t looking for something to fill a hole in his life. He needed emptying.

He would stroll the streets at night looking for a way to soothe himself. It weighed heavy on him. His job offered only solitude—behind a computer screen at home. His coworkers also worked remotely, and he didn’t click with any of them anyway. He didn’t have any pets.

He awoke one morning after one of his episodes. He figured it’s why he couldn’t hold on to any friends. He also pushed his family away. When he got frustrated, he would get pissed. And when he got pissed, he drank whiskey, turning him into an irate drunk. Those were his Mr. Hyde moments, as if he drank some green liquid, turning him into a monster.

The hangover was his only regular visitor, popping in to say “hi” yet again. His neurons cross-pollinated an ache through his whole head. “Last time I ever do that,” he grumbled for the umpteenth time. He showered and prepared himself. When he was “normal,” he looked quite orderly: an ironed button-up shirt, pressed slacks, and his hair gelled back.

Acquaintances would ask him, “why don’t you have a girlfriend?” all the time. He would just smile and say something about how he’s busy. But he did wish he could get a girlfriend. Or any friend. He finished work for the day, and he decided to go outside. He wandered to the local library, and it was there he found a note pinned to the community board:

Looking to meet people? Join our friendly ping-pong competitions every Friday at 6:00.

At first, he thought nothing of it. But later that week, on Friday, after finishing work, he reconsidered. He got dressed and went to the library. He remained quiet, and he feared he would fade into obscurity. But he played, albeit poorly, and the other five attendees expressed kindness and support.

It became a normal routine. Every Friday, he would play ping-pong. They would regularly play in the library’s back room, and he started opening up to the others. One even asked if he wanted to join a couple of them on a short hike on the weekend. Josh was elated—this was a much missed neural high, and he started to feel the weight of loneliness being lifted.

But Brad excelled at ping-pong, and he didn’t pull any punches when playing. It frustrated Josh to play against him. He hid it well, but he would get home after playing and slam the doors. Sometimes throw a plate against the wall. But he managed to contain himself until he got home. That was something.

On one Friday, their regularly reserved room was booked by someone else. The group decided to play at a local bar. Josh frowned at hearing the news, but he didn’t want to be left out. Otherwise, the renewed weight of loneliness would drag him down like a ball and chain on his ankle. He went to the bar on Friday. He didn’t want to stick out from the others, so he ordered a shot of whiskey and a beer. Just to fit in.

He played. Brad kept winning. Josh’s anger filled in the gaps that loneliness previously inhabited, and he stormed off to the bar to order another couple shots. Josh didn’t remember anything more from that night. Except for the euphoria when it was all over—with Brad’s blood splattered all over the floor as Josh straddled his chest. Bar patrons screamed around him. Mr. Hyde had taken over. It was then that Josh realized what he had been missing. He needed emptying of loneliness, and seeing someone’s insides was the purest method of intimacy. He felt renewed, like a fever had been broken, and his soul had been cleansed of its weight. He didn’t need friends in the traditional sense: he needed more of whatever this was.

The prosecution charged Josh with first degree assault. Allegedly, Josh rampaged to Brad in his haze and beat Brad’s face to a pulp with the ping-pong paddle. A dozen witness corroborated the story. Brad’s face looked like it was put through a blender, and he could barely breathe in his hospital bed. The jury found Josh guilty, and he received a sentence of no less than ten years in prison.

Josh had been in prison for a few weeks, and not many people talked to him. I just have that sort of aura, he supposed. Could never fit in anywhere. His internal weight creeped back upon him. However, another inmate took pity and struck up a conversation with Josh at lunch. Michael wondered if Josh would be interested in playing a game with him and the boys in the prison courtyard.

“What game?” Josh asked.

“Ping-pong.”

Josh grinned. “Nothing would make me happier.”

Belt

I strangled my father with the belt he would beat me and my mother with. I couldn’t take it anymore. His outbursts tainted my entire life. My back flared when I carried my backpack, and it hurt to sit on the hard seats at school.

You can’t do much as a kid, but I grew and am now in high school. I didn’t do this for me, though. I did it for Mom. She never hurt anybody, and seeing her cry at least once a week as she nursed a new line of purple was tough.

He hit us again. I read a book while my mom folded his laundry. Apparently, we were “too loud.” We interrupted his football game. He’s seen it a dozen times. But rewinding the DVR, getting drunk, and bitching about Peyton Manning throwing another interception seemed to be his favorite hobby.

He passed out on the La-Z-Boy, a mound of empty beer cans to his left. His belt had fallen on the floor from his right hand when he finally blacked out.

My mom watched while sitting in the kitchen. She saw everything, aghast with horrified sympathy. She didn’t move to stop me. I think the only thing she felt bad about was the fact I did it and not her.

I went up to my room and packed my backpack. But not for school. Some clothes, I grabbed some snacks, and I kissed my mom on the forehead. “We’re free now.”

She never got up from her seat.

I’ve been living on the streets for a few months now. I ended up hanging out with three other homeless people. A middle-aged couple and an older lady named Sarah. She was about my mom’s age. But she didn’t smell like shampoo and lotion.

I started drinking with them. I always swore I would never touch a drop, but when you live in a tattered tent with a crusty blanket, begging for money, you start to look for escapes. First it was beer. Then cheap whiskey. They said it would make me into a man. I slept in Sarah’s tent, and we started sleeping under the same blanket.

This shit sucked. I would go days between bathing in the creek that rank of dog piss. Most people at the red lights would roll up their windows as I approached like a Roomba bouncing between cars, trying to suck up any cash. Several times I was chided for not getting a job. I would if I could, but I am sure the police still look for me. I could usually afford eating once a day. The couple yelled at each other all hours of the night. I wouldn’t be able to sleep much anyway because Sarah would often slide her hands down my pants. It felt good, but also icky.

It was late at night, and the couple still begged for money at the freeway offramp. Sarah and I drank in our makeshift camp behind the interstate. We already drank half a bottle of whiskey, and I felt like I rode one of those carnival rides where they push you to the wall. She tried to pull down my pants outside the tent, and I kept telling her no because I was on the verge of throwing up. She aggressively pulled at my beltline.

I pushed her, and she fell on her ass. Fuck. I’m just like my goddamned Dad. But I couldn’t stop myself. It seemed like the natural thing to do. My hands carried themselves down and unbuckled my worn leather belt, raising it over my head.

Just One Shot

“If you don’t talk to me for one hour, I am sure Santa will give you another great gift,” I snapped at my daughters.

They giggled and disappeared in the packed cabin.

“Dear,” my wife said, gently placing her cocktail-cooled fingers on my arm, “they’re just excited to be here with everyone else.”

I grumbled in agreement, finishing off my beer. Work was stressful. Our company was deep in a merger, and we wanted to finish it before the new year. I had one week before Christmas break, and I could not concentrate on the myriad of family members around me. The entire extended shebang, all in one oversized cabin for a weekend.

We lived on the other side of town, so my wife and I opted to sleep in our own place Friday night. We’d be back in the morning.

My wife led me through the gauntlet of people. We shook hands, asked about the kids and jobs, and discussed the weather. Lots of snow up here! Thoughts of the merger interrupted every exchange, and my wife even commented on how aloof I seemed.

I wanted to go home. It got late, and we scooped up the kids from the couch where they passed out from their sugar crash. As we headed toward the door, Bill, my brother-in-law, stopped us. “Just one shot!” he stood with three shot glasses precariously held in his hands. My wife initially objected, but I repositioned one of my daughters on my hip and reached out for one.

“I don’t think you should be having that,” she chided.

“Oh, he’ll be fine!” Bill said. He shoved the last shot in my wife’s hands, and we all drank the aged whiskey.

We got in the car, and I struggled to get the keys in the ignition. My wife asked if I was fine to drive. I snapped back.

I finally got the car started with the kids still snoozing in the back, and I drove to the highway. I don’t remember what exactly happened, but I lost control of the car. Black ice I suppose. The car spun to the left, and we drifted right into a semi coming the other way. My wife and one daughter were crushed. Our youngest daughter flew out a window—why hadn’t I buckled them in? She died a few hours later after her lungs completely collapsed.

It’s been a year now. I lost my job and now live in a small apartment by myself. I won’t be celebrating Christmas with anyone. My wife’s family won’t talk to me. Tried to take me to court even.

It’s dark in the living room. I am sitting on a chair while fumbling with my hands. “I am so sorry for everything,” I whisper to my wife and daughters between sobs. “Daddy’s coming to get you.” I look down the barrel of the pistol I just bought. “Just one shot…”

Magazines

I once looked at the magazines in my dad’s closet. He caught me. I still have a scar from where the belt broke skin. My mother heard my screams and came in the room. I thought she would help, but she turned her cheek and looked out the window. I learned my lesson that day.

School also sucked. I hate Brad. He always pushed me into lockers when he walked by, and his friends always laughed. One time he even de-pantsed me. It was so embarrassing. Their faces and mine were all beet red, but for different reasons. They had tears of joy streaming down their cheeks as their laughs echoed off the hallways. I wanted to die.

It wasn’t all bad, though. I have two friends: Mike and Jimmy. Mike’s parents own the gas station downtown. Jimmy’s dad left when he was a baby, and his mom worked as a cleaning lady during the day and at the grocery store in the evenings. We liked to hang out after school playing games.

But a couple of days ago, Jimmy’s mom got sick. Like, bedridden sick. He’s been staying home to nurse her. A day later, Mike’s parents went on a vacation. Of course, they took Mike with him.

I sat alone at the lunch table. Brad, that asshole, came over and pushed my lunch onto the ground. He and his friends laughed. Some people snickered. I got up and ran out of the lunchroom. I complained to the front desk for the umpteenth time. The school counselor brought me into his office. He told me to stop antagonizing Brad, and he might not lash out at me. “He’s under a lot of pressure being the quarterback for the high school football team.”

After school ended, I walked home, constantly looking over my shoulder.

The next morning, my dad was still passed out drunk on the couch in the living room. My mom already left for work.

I was about to leave the house for school. But when my dad drunk a whole 12 pack, I knew he would be out until noon at the earliest.

I crept back upstairs and grabbed a chair, silently dragging it on the carpet to the closet in my parents’ room. I stretched up and started feeling around for the box with my dad’s magazines. I accidentally knocked a different box down, and it thudded on the carpet. I froze and listened. My dad snored on.

I finally got the box down and opened it up. There the magazines were. I looked at them in wonder before stuffing everything into my backpack.

I turned around and dashed out of the room. I thought for a second to put the chair back, but it didn’t matter anyway.

I ran to school, which was only a few blocks. I got to school breathless. I couldn’t stop shaking. I went to first period, and I couldn’t focus on whatever nonsense the teacher professed. It didn’t matter anyway. I couldn’t stop from glancing at my backpack, with the magazines inside. Every class was like that—my mind elsewhere. Finally, lunchtime came. I sat alone, at the end of the table as I usually did. Mike and Jimmy would be by either side of me usually, but they were still out. I wouldn’t have brought the magazines if they were here.

I brought them for Brad. Him and the other assholes. I didn’t get a lunch today and instead sat there with nothing in front of me. It didn’t matter anyway. I looked at Brad, and I could already see one of his goons tapping him on the shoulder and pointing in my direction. They discussed how to torment me today.

As they got up, I reached down and unzipped my backpack. I have a present for you, Brad, I thought. I looked at the magazines. Glossy. Smooth. I grabbed one of the magazines and couldn’t help but let out a laugh. Oh yes, Brad, this magazine is for you. It was deceptively heavy, and I could feel the nipple at the top—the tip of the top bullet. I slid the magazine into the handle and cocked the hammer. I stood up, aiming my dad’s pistol at Brad. It was incredibly satisfying seeing that smug smile disappear from his face. They all started backing up, but it was too late. “Fuck you, Brad!” I shouted, but the thunderous booms drowned out my voice—a different sort of echo off the cafeteria walls. People screamed. It didn’t matter anyway. I kept pulling the trigger. Anyone who moved got shot. They fled like leaves before a breeze. I ejected the magazine and loaded another one. I cocked the hammer and started pulling the trigger again. More screams. More running. I emptied the second magazine and grabbed the third one. This magazine, this one was for me. I turned the gun around in my hand and looked down the barrel. It didn’t matter anymore.

Afterword: I don’t condone or glamorize any of this. I was bullied in school, and while I never considered doing anything drastic, I could understand how one could be pushed to lash out with extreme intent. I wish mental health and gun control would be taken more seriously in this country.