fiction writing.
On the walls, over the grooves in the paintwork where a paintbrush had once dipped and slopped, are the remains of what used to be the little girl’s brain. Clotted on the wall, pasted in a mess of brain matter and bone fragments and blonde hair and blood, it’s still steaming from evacuating her skull in one tear of a bullet. Dripping down the yellow paintwork, it looks bright red. The remaining children cower, many too afraid to run away, others deterred from doing so by the bullet wounds they sport. Seven, in total. Including the girl, seven kids dead or dying.
A ponytailed girl stifles a scream. The art teacher holds the redheaded twins close to her bosom, more for her own comfort than theirs. She pleads, mouthing, soundlessly. You don’t even need to see her lips to know what she’s thinking. Please don’t do this. Please don’t. Don’t kill the kids. Don’t kill me. Kill the kids if you must, but don’t kill me.
Outside, sirens rise to pierce the sound of the children’s tears. Men, plated in black beetle armor, wielding high-power rifles. Sharpshooters. You don’t need to know what their orders are. When the hostage are children, the stakes are different.
Grabbing the girl with ponytails by the back of her blouse, pulling her close, you hold her up. Her feet dangling off the ground, she squirms, struggles, resists, but you still hold her right over your torso, ducking your head so the men outside can find no clear shot. Any bullet aimed at your chest or your abdomen, there’s a living girl in the way. No clear shot. Can’t risk it.
Meanwhile, you still have plenty of bullets. Plenty of children. The art teacher. The twins. You smile at the prospect.
The show must go on.
A ponytailed girl stifles a scream. The art teacher holds the redheaded twins close to her bosom, more for her own comfort than theirs. She pleads, mouthing, soundlessly. You don’t even need to see her lips to know what she’s thinking. Please don’t do this. Please don’t. Don’t kill the kids. Don’t kill me. Kill the kids if you must, but don’t kill me.
Outside, sirens rise to pierce the sound of the children’s tears. Men, plated in black beetle armor, wielding high-power rifles. Sharpshooters. You don’t need to know what their orders are. When the hostage are children, the stakes are different.
Grabbing the girl with ponytails by the back of her blouse, pulling her close, you hold her up. Her feet dangling off the ground, she squirms, struggles, resists, but you still hold her right over your torso, ducking your head so the men outside can find no clear shot. Any bullet aimed at your chest or your abdomen, there’s a living girl in the way. No clear shot. Can’t risk it.
Meanwhile, you still have plenty of bullets. Plenty of children. The art teacher. The twins. You smile at the prospect.
The show must go on.