#ThursThreads Week 311 : I Think We Pushed To Far

It was 0245 hours when I reached the apartment of Sue and Linda. It was in flames, of course. And the police, and sheriff were there, making sure no one tried to stop it from burning. I had the armor scan the building. The remains of two humans. Sue and Linda.

After reloading every clip for my guns, I started my response. The sheriff was standing next to three police officers, talking about what a shame it was, all the violence in town, and what needed to be done to stop it.

I started with the police who were keeping everyone a safe distance away. I didn’t shoot to kill, only to wound, and disable. It took a few seconds before anyone realized what was happening, then everyone went stupid. People watching the fire started running in all directions. The police kept getting wounded, and unable to do anything.

After I’d dealt with crowd control, I moved to the police cars. Shot every one of them. High velocity, armor piercing rounds. Took out engine blocks everywhere. I set fire to the sheriff’s car.

The sheriff hid behind a tree, the police with him kept their guns drawn, and ready to shoot anyone. One of them glared at the sheriff. “I think we pushed to far! Now, they’re pushing back.”

Once more, I displayed the hologram of Michelle’s body, and right beside it, Officer Morgan, still sitting at her desk as she informed someone, “A transgender victim? Nothing has been done.”

249 Words

The next part of the ongoing Armor 17 story. It’s Week 311 of #ThursThreads, hosted by Siobhan Muir. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are always fun to read. And there are some great writers who turn out weekly.


#ThursThreads Week 310 : It Can’t Be Too Late

Case Street Fords had been a good car dealership. Small, but with a good set of cars on the lot, mostly SUVs and trucks. The service center was behind the sales building. One automated garage door, and room inside for six vehicles at a time.

The service center was on fire. The fire department hadn’t responded. A F-350 was pulling a dead body back and forth on the street next to the dealership. Men with guns cheered, “We got him! We finally got rid of him!”

The body had been Simon. The best mechanic in town. Everyone knew that. Simon had been shot in the leg, so he couldn’t escape. Then, beaten. Then, tied to the truck that was dragging him around.

Simon’s mate, Doug, was running down the street, heading toward the chaos, when I stopped him. “They’ll kill you.”

He screamed, he struggled, “Let me go! I’ve got to save Simon. It can’t be too late.” Doug collapsed to his knees on the asphalt. “It can’t be too late.”

“Stay here, Doug. Stay safe.”

The truck driver was the first person I shot. I kept shooting until none of the men with guns were left standing. Doug ran to Simon’s remains.

“I’m sorry, Doug. I was too late.”

There was an apartment complex I needed to visit. I hoped I wasn’t too late. If I was, well. “I am the violence. And the violence will respond. Will it ever.”

241 Words

The next part of the ongoing Armor 17 story. It’s Week 310 of #ThursThreads, hosted by Siobhan Muir. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are always fun to read. And there are some great writers who turn out weekly.

Miranda Kate’s Mid-Week Challenge : 2018/04/11

You were not there when the membranes touched. You did not see. You do not know. The membranes touched. They did not collide. They did not pass harmlessly through each other. They did not bounce off each other.

They touched. That’s all. A simple touch. Like you would touch the cheek of your loved one with your fingertips. The two membranes touched. Ours, and theirs.

You did not see what happened. The way reality shattered. Like a window someone threw a rock through. A small piece of the sky disintegrated. Radial lines surrounded it, shards of sky, and clouds. And through the gap, through the hole, where the rock passed through, I saw her.

My daughter. My daughter I buried thirty-five years ago. Whose tombstone I told a thousand stories to. And cried a river full of tears before. She was there. Her fingers grasped the jagged edges of the hole, and tried to pull it open more. She pressed her face against the opening, as if trying to see more of our world, our reality.

And she spoke. I heard her whisper, “Oh, Daddy, please be there. Please be where I can see you on last time.”

I don’t know why, but I screamed, as loudly as I could. Louder than I knew I could, “Here I am! I’m down here!”

My daughter heard my cry. I saw her searching, looking downward, trying to spot me. Trying to see me. I jumped, waved my arms, laughed, cried, and screamed, “Here! Down here!”

She stopped searching when she found me. She stared straight at me, and I heard her. The voice of my child. Gone for thirty-five years. “It is OK, Daddy.” I swear she smiled. I could see it in her eye. “It is OK. I’m OK.”

“I never got the chance to tell you good-bye. Never got the chance to tell you I was leaving. For a different world. A different place.”

I sank to my knees, looking at my child through that hole in reality. Through that fractured place in the window that is life. And she spoke to me. “I miss you. I wanted you to know. I miss you. And I’m so sorry we fought.”

I’d always said the words, countless times, on endless days, in the ice and snow, or the sweltering heat, it didn’t matter. I always spoke the words to my child, where she rested in the ground. “It was my fault. All my fault. I started the fight. I said the words that hurt you. The words that put you in that car. The words that made you drive that night.”

I reached to the sky, to my daughter, “I didn’t know. I didn’t think. And you were gone.” I felt my tears once more. “It was all my fault. All my fault.”

Her voice spoke again, through that hole in the world, “It was mine to, Daddy. I knew not to drive. But I did anyway.” I saw her close her eye, “I had to find you. Had to see you. Talk with you. Daddy. I’m so sorry we had to fight like that. So sorry I didn’t get to say good-bye.”

She blew a kiss through the fractured sky, “I love you, my father. I need to let you know I’m OK. And happy. And I miss you.” My daughter cried. I saw a tear fall from her eyes, through the fractured sky above. And in a flash of lightning, the shattered window was mended. And my child was gone.

And I stood beneath that place, where she had been, while the sky grew dark, and it rained.

You weren’t there. You didn’t see what happened. You can’t understand, I know.

But I know she is alive. In a place where she is happy. The happiest she has ever been. And I know, someday. When my time here, in our world, comes to an end. I will see my beloved daughter once again.

And I will finally get to tell her I’m sorry.

674 Words

This is written for Week 50 of Miranda Kate‘s Mid-Week Challenge. I think I need a drink after this. You can read about Miranda’s small fiction challenge here. Please, go read Miranda’s short tale this week, and any others that showed up. The tales are always little works of art, crafted with words, meant to be shared, and enjoyed. And many of them are amazing.

Miranda Kate’s Mid-Week Challenge : 2018/04/08

Shelly spoke the words I thought I’d never hear her speak, “I want to have a baby.”

It was one of the few times I didn’t know what to say. So, I stumbled through some words, “Oh? I suppose we can do that.”

Thus began the process. In the weeks ahead, we had to learn all the laws about parenthood. In particular, the ones about the baby being diagnosed as a white male child. Having to learn such children were always aborted, and always, the fetal remains were placed in containers, in the genetic banks, wasn’t fun. But it was the law.

And it was a good law. We knew the stories. We’ve all heard the stories. Of white men. How they were a threat to all women, everywhere. How they took what they wanted, even if it meant killing others, and taking it from them. How women were scared to walk through the grocery store, because one might take what they wanted from them. Might follow them to their car, and throw them in the back seat, and rape them.

White men were the scourge of the human race. Everyone knew that. That’s why the laws were written. That’s why white men were imprisoned. Why they were executed. Didn’t matter what they’d done in life. Their existence was a threat to the rest of us.

So, we wipe them out of existence.

It made the world a safer place. We haven’t had a war in nearly 100 years. We’ve gone green, stopped using fossil fuels, and use solar and wind power. We got rid of the guns too. All the guns. It was amazing to watch the body count in places like Chicago, and New York, and Washington DC nosedive once the guns were gone.

And the white men fought back the whole time. They didn’t respect the law at all. The will of the majority of the world. Nope. They went on these monstrous killing sprees, and shot women, black people, Muslims, and anyone who wasn’t a white man. Just like they always had. It only made the laws easier to enforce, as the entire world turned against them, and saw them for the violent, aggressive, predatory beings they were.

These days, it was a woman’s choice to have a baby. The couple made the decision. It was funny on the legal paperwork. “Mrs. A and Mrs. B. have elected to have a baby, and understand the process, and the legal requirements.”

We’d put in our request, and the local genetic bank, and have genetic samples taken. The samples would be compared to the contents of the bank, and the best match would be picked out. Of course, there was only a 90% chance the baby would be female. If it was that 1 in 10 times when a male baby was conceived, it would be aborted, and the genetic material would be added to the bank.

We had to sign all the legal paperwork agreeing to that. But it wasn’t a big deal. We didn’t want a baby boy anyway. Especially a white one. That would be like raising a rabid wolf in your home, after all. We hoped for a red headed girl. With green eyes. But, we’d be happy with whatever our daughter turned out to be. And if it was a boy, we’d try again. Until we had a girl.

No rabid wolves for us.

567 Words

This is written for Week 49 of Miranda Kate‘s Mid-Week Challenge. This week is an angry week. And I’m not hiding the causes. You can read about Miranda’s small fiction challenge here. Please, go read Miranda’s short tale this week, and any others that showed up. The tales are always little works of art, crafted with words, meant to be shared, and enjoyed. And many of them are amazing.