#ThursThreads Week 293 : You’re Better Off Here With Me

It was 0530 hours, and the police arrived at the front door of Samantha’s home. They didn’t even pretend to be polite. They arrested Samantha’s parents, and took Samantha with them, to put her in protective services. One officer tried to keep them safe from harm. “You’re better off here with me. I can protect you from them. And whatever it is that’s blowing shit up.”

Samantha looked around, and saw nothing abnormal. But she spoke anyway. “You’re there, aren’t you. Watching.”

A voice from nowhere answered, “Yes.” The officers drew their guns. “I’m watching. And if you, or your parents are hurt. In any way.” I paused. The officers pointed guns at Samantha.

She nodded, “I know.”

I didn’t speak for a moment. The air was still. The neighbors watched, peaking from their windows, and standing on their front porches. “If they hurt you. I’ll know. And I’ll kill them all. Every last one of them.”

“Please,” she whispered, “hasn’t there been enough violence. Enough shooting. Enough dead people?” She waited a moment for me to answer, “Wasn’t what happened to Michelle enough?”

“They want everyone dead.” The officers swung their guns everywhere, looking for my voice, looking for me. “Even you, Samantha. Even you.”

“Why?”

“Because. You’re different.”

The officer next to Samantha spoke, “Who are you?”

“I am the violence.” My voice came from nowhere. “Birthed by blind hatred. That hatred dies, I go away.”

They never found me. No matter where they looked.

247 Words
@mysoulstears


Yet another part of the ongoing Armor 17 story. It’s Week 293 of #ThursThreads, hosted by Siobhan Muir. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are always fun to read.

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#FlashMobWrites 1 x 50 : Castle

Stupid people have always pissed me off. When I heard about the armed takeover of the National Wildlife Preserve in Oregon, I headed straight for the place, and when I got there, I knew exactly what to do.

Rule by guns is something I don’t tolerate.

Ever.

It was 0300 hours, on a moonless night. The sky was pitch black, filled with stars like diamonds on black velvet. Pretty to look at, and I was certain anyone else would have looked at them, and relaxed.

“Active,” I turned the armor on, and vanished, totally invisible to the human eye, to computerized infrared vision systems, and to old fashioned radar systems. I walked into the main building of the refuge, where the men with their guns were.

Yeah, I know. I hear it all the time. “They’re just good old boys, fighting for what they believe.” And, “Rebellion is part of the country’s history. A tool we’ve always had to use when change becomes necessary.”

And inevitably, rebellion leads to chaos, war, and piles of the innocent, their blood soaking into the ground. All in the name of defending someone else’s rights, and freedoms.

Most of the idiots were asleep.

“Gun.” A slot on the left leg of the armor opened, and a .44 slid out. I aimed it at the ceiling, and fired four shots, just to wake everyone up.

And wake them it did. Guys and their AR-15s came running, holding their guns in front of themselves, like they were bulletproof. Which they weren’t. I shot them. Fathers, husbands, fiancees, sons of mothers. Normal people. Six had responded. Six bodies leaked blood on the floor. Six less idiots with guns.

Next, I went through the building, moved room to room. I hunted them down. Seems they didn’t have any nerves at all, any guts at all, when the actual gunfire started. I found them in separate rooms, hiding under tables, behind doors, hiding in the restrooms.

I left seventeen bodies. No survivors.

If you wish to rule by the gun, you’ll deal with me.

You won’t walk away.

I am Armor 17.

I am the violence.

354 Words
@LurchMunster


Expressing myself through writing for Week 1×50 of #FlashMobWrites. #FlashMobWrites is hosted by Ruth Long and Cara Michaels.  Please, go read all the stories for #FlashMobWrites Week 1×50. You might find something you like. But if you don’t read them, how will you ever know?

#FlashMobWrites 1 x 49 : Now And Again

Bob started staying home instead of going to work. He drank until he threw up, then he drank more. He couldn’t turn on his TV, because Darla was on all the channels. He couldn’t use his computer, because Darla always opened a video chat with him. He couldn’t use his phone because every number he called, everyone he texted, Darla answered. He couldn’t even play because when he opened a game, it turned into the video of Darla’s ghost standing beside that place they’d buried her body.

Charlie did his best to ignore everything. He called the blonde when he couldn’t take it anymore, and she always chewed him out, “There’s no such thing as ghosts, you asshole!”

After 17 days, Charlie was driving home from work, passed out, and drove his car across the median, into the oncoming traffic. His car side-swiped three other cars before an SUV t-boned him.

I was glad no one he hit died, although a couple of people did have to spend the night in the hospital.

Charlie didn’t survive. The collision with the SUV snapped his neck. I wished that hadn’t happened. I’d wanted him to spend the rest of his life in prison.

The next day, when Bob heard about Charlie’s wreck, he’d had enough. He called 911, and told them to come get him. “Save me! She’s after me! She killed Charlie, now she’s after me!”

The police, of course, found it entertaining how a dead woman had killed Charlie, and was haunting Bob.

Bob told the police everything. I suppose it helped when Darla showed up while he was waiting for the police, and told him, “Tell them everything, and I’ll stop.” He told them names, places, times, dates. Hell, he even told them what the blonde did to Darla while she was tied up, before they killed her, and what she’d done to Darla’s body after they killed her.

The blonde, it seems, was one demented soul.

Of course, I made sure the blonde knew Bob had turned himself in. It was easy to put it on her car radio while she drove home from work. “Murder turns self in, names accomplices. More at Eleven.”

She checked the news when she got home, and Bob’s picture was on the news report, with his full name, “And the police are collecting the accomplices. More at 11.” It was the first time she’d been nervous about anything. She’d never batted an eye about killing Darla. But it was different when her life was at risk. She’d be going to jail for murder, and she knew it. She’d watched the windows, and knew when the police cars pulled up, and the officers got out.

They heard the gunshot while they walked toward her front door.

Seems the blonde had no intention of going to jail.

She got what she deserved.

Just another day in the life of an Armor.

I am Armor 17. I am the violence.

491 Words
@LurchMunster


This is Part 7, the final part, of a story I’ve written using the prompts for the #FlashMobWrites challenge. #FlashMobWrites is hosted by Ruth Long and Cara Michaels.  Please, go read all the stories for #FlashMobWrites Week 1×49. You might find something you like. But if you don’t read them, how will you ever know?