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Latest Stories

March 08, 2024
Flash Fiction Benoit

Some Enchanted Evening

It was a rugby tackle with tears: Chrissy burst in, sobbing and babbling, hugging James. Her face was all wet, eyes wild. What…? My parents split up, Dad has moved in with his boyfriend and I cannot join them. I am shut out. I have lost my dad. Torrent of…
March 08, 2024
Horror Stories Marvel Chukwudi Pephel

In The Hands Of My Legs

The car pulled up in front of the large salon. The neon sign, that sexy broad thing, on the salon'sroof read "Mr. Gil's All-night Salon". The exhaust pipe of the car was pumping solid smoke, theswirls moving from the car and towards the salon.…
March 07, 2024
Mystery Stories Vanessa Leigh Giles

Casualty of Love in the Time of Coronavirus

Chapter 1 Until Death do us Part ‘Ring, ring!’. I answered the telephone and asked, “Hello, good evening. Who’s this? “Hello.” This is Dr. Smith from Red Cross hospital. “Is this Mr. Locke, John?”, he asked, hesitantly scratching his bald head. “Yes, doctor.…
March 07, 2024
Crime Stories Robert Pook

Bar Room Trigger

Another return journey on footpaths so familiar. He strides across each crack in each paving stone. Regular loose drain covers sidestepped. Mapping long ago mapped in Richard’s desolate mind. His pace hastened by the sight of the oncoming storm. Quickening…
March 04, 2024
Horror Stories Ano Chinemerem

Sanctity

Where should I begin? I could begin by telling you about this comely boy, whom every notable person around the streets agrees his smile could charm the bills off one. Between one smile, there was his goodness, his dreams and humanity—a little far ahead?— but…
March 04, 2024
Flash Fiction Emanuel Diaz

Et Mortui Partium

As Rafael stepped out into the rain, it wasn't the ordinary drops that fell from the sky. Instead, it was a storm of souls, each one taking the form of shimmering jewelry as it cascaded toward the ground. Rubies, diamonds, and sapphires twinkled amidst the…
February 29, 2024
Poetry Jing Li Ava

London

‘Am I in London?’ "I am." Where is Elizabeth? Happy living story All of your chapter Bounlance joy Please my heart Power hand Wise mind Our baby Vow vow Love all love Miss I miss Endless wonder Bring us together Love all love Miss I miss For everything My…
February 29, 2024
Flash Fiction Rob Pook

Life Sentence of The Smith

Born nine months after his country won the World Cup.A child prodigy.Cast off at age twenty-four.Husband, father, emigree, away on the other side of the world.The blue-collar life.The dreams of success.The search for fulfillment.The long years of empty…
February 29, 2024
Mystery Stories Joshua Lowther

The Operator

Jason looked over to his right, his eyes barely able to focus themselves on the subject of his attention. His neck ached terribly from the strenuous movement. He was tired. The captain’s gaze came to rest on the rookie sonar operator sitting tense at his…
February 29, 2024
Flash Fiction Salvatore Difalco

The Chute

At dusk, we left our unit with a soft pink bundle. I carried it through the wet streets and into the black woods. I said I’d take it all the way, the bundle, but that we had to drop it in together. My wife’s green eyes flashed. “Don’t make me do that.” I…
February 29, 2024
Fantasy Stories Marvel Chukwudi Pephel

Tragopolis

In the heart of a vast and mysterious forest lay a city like no other – Tragopolis. It was a fablesque city hidden from the prying eyes of the outside world. It was a place where secrets bloomed as bountifully as the surrounding flora. It was a city where…
February 15, 2024
Science Fiction Stories Jasnoor

Ethan Sheldon's Death

<< Ethan Sheldon’s [Deceased] Brain Autopsy >> Damn, this one's going to be a long one—an all-nighter mopping the floors in this creepy ass place. There is no music or sound except the splashing noise of cleaning fluid. I'm in a hallway; there's nothing to…

Sergeant Taylor always checked us thoroughly before sending us in: regulation uniform, backpacks, anti-ballistic helmets, Kevlar vests, and, of course, your gun. You couldn’t go anywhere in this place and be safe without your gun.

     Sergeant Taylor was strict not just because it was his job, but because he cared. He wanted us to have all the gear we needed to survive—in school.

     Since the Parkland Act, schools were now so much safer and more equitable. Everyone wears the same military grade school uniform. Everyone has to go through the same biometric security screening to get into the school and into every classroom. Everyone has a regulation handgun with live ammo and trains with it during PE.

     The math is so basic: the good guys will always outnumber the bad guys in any school. We were now armed and prepared to complete our academic mission. We were locked and loaded for learning. We were fighting fear with firepower.

     There were always some who spoke out against the Parkland Act and the militarization of our schools, but that’s just Twentieth Century thinking. School gun deaths are down 42% in the seven years since the Parkland Act went into effect. And once the coders figure out how to firm up the handprint safety locks on the primary grade handguns (who knew peanut butter and jelly could spoof the handprint recognition software), that should bring down the overall school gun deaths another 12% or more.

     So, we are making progress. Sergeant Taylor reminds us of that every day. He tells we are a new generation. A generation that can defend itself against anything and accomplish everything.

     I admire his optimism. But, I don’t share it…yet. I have to admit, I feel a bit dead inside because of what happened last month. My fifth grade pal Dara was killed. A substitute teacher accidentally shot her during recess. The substitute said the auto-safety feature malfunctioned. I cried for Dara every night, when no one else could see me. We’ve been taught that we shouldn’t get too emotional about things because that’s what can trigger the kind of mental illness that leads to school shootings. It’s hard for me to understand it all, and I’m concerned that my tears mean that I might fit The Profile. We’ve all been warned to be on the lookout for our peers that might fit The Profile.

      A couple of days after Dara’s death, our regular teacher, Ms. Forman, had us all trace our hands holding our guns on a big piece of butcher paper. We all got to choose different colors when we did the tracing and then write our names in the outline of our guns and add smiley faces and flowers. We even let the substitute teacher trace her handgun. Ms. Forman said it was a way to promote healing. We marched the big sign in during Dara’s funeral and draped it over her coffin. The clergy all smiled, and Dara’s mom fainted.

     Now, every time I get off the yellow armored bus and the driver and his tailgunner wave to me and my fifth grade pals, I feel like a piece of shrapnel is working its way deeper and closer to my heart. In many ways, I already feel like a ghost. Like I’ve joined Dara and we are hanging out on a mile-high jungle gym looking down into my school. Neither of us likes what we see.

     But, then we look beyond the school, and we get really scared. Ghosts getting scared, that’s really something. We see kids just like us on mile-high jungle gyms looking down at their schools all across America. We keep staring and one-by-one, all those thousands of kids turn and lock eyes with us. With me.

     Because Dara is looking at me, too. I only feel a little dead. Dara and those other school kids are all dead. They are still looking at me. To me.

     I slowly climb down from the mile-high jungle gym and go back to my classroom surrounded by all the other living and breathing ghosts that are my classmates. I go to my desk. Take out my school-issued handgun. Ms. Forman’s eyes widen a bit and her hand goes to her holster.

     I raise my gun.

     My eyes meet my teacher’s. She freezes.

     And then I loft my gun into the garbage can near her desk. The loud clatter makes all my classmates eyes widen in alarm and their small hands fumble for their guns. Then they realize what has happened and they freeze like little green plastic army figures. Ms. Forman is still frozen, for another moment. Then she slaps the big red panic button on her desk.

     Doors snap shut and auto-lock, blackout shades drop to cover all the windows. In 30 seconds, Sergeant Taylor is at the door, overriding the lock. He rushes in with his assault rifle drawn. He wheels on each of my classmates holding their guns, assessing, smiling, proud.

     Ms. Forman is pointing at the garbage can and Sergeant Taylor goes and kicks it over. My gun tumbles out. Ms. Forman now points at me, the gunless one.

     Sergeant Taylor looks at me, sees I'm the one who threw away the gun, and it's as if he’s been shot through the heart. He loses color and I think he might faint like Dara’s mom, but he doesn’t. He is now frozen. Stymied. Haunted.

     Haunted. Like he’s seen a ghost.

     And then I understood his fear and my new power. Sergeant Taylor had told us we were a new generation. I get it now. Dara on the mile-high jungle gym helped me see it.

     We are the deadest generation. Ghosts who your bullets don’t scare because you’ve already killed our childhoods, our innocence. Ghosts you can’t intimidate because you’ve robbed us of a violence-free future. Ghosts who are very good at one thing: haunting the conscience of America.

     We are the Deadest Generation. The new American Spirit. And we are on the haunt.

End

 A long-time English teacher and science fiction reader, I like short short stories and long long hikes in the Pacific Northwest.

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