The Weary Old Heroes of a Forgotten War

And the band played Waltzing Mathilda.  And the old men still answer the call.  But year after the year, the numbers grow fewer.  Some day no-one will march there at all.

An army of wind-warping lead, to the clatter of innumerable casings, ricocheted from pavement and brick facings through the broad window panes of shop-fronts and high-rise apartments, as the police pressed their assault. The venerable Ms. Other, concealed in the cover of the rear seat loaded another magazine and racked the slide, grinning maniacally.

“Really makes you feel alive, eh Richard?”

Richard was practically dislocating his every joint to flatten himself into the very bottom of the passenger’s seat, babbling incoherently for his mansioned mother, while Poena only laughed, and hoisted him again into the rear seat.

“Get your shit together, little man! How many times in life do you think you’ll have the opportunity to be shot at?! You might as well enjoy it!”

One day we’ll all be in the ground.  Make sure you dance while you’ve still got your legs, still got the wind in your lungs–nevermind what others may think.

Edit: Click the link.

 

The First Among Many

He leveled his weapon, which began to spit forth with the venomous lick of surging fire at four-hundred-and-fifty rounds per minute, forty-five caliber rounds. He felt the familiar kick of the weapon, its poorly mitigated recoil—it was not an elegant weapon—with bitter nostalgia, as round after round tore the occupied seats, nailed-down stools, and the hardwood table itself to warm, fluttering splinters. All was silent, save for the panicked and dazed screaming of the damned, for a few seconds as he ejected the spent magazine and loaded a fresh one. It sounded like songbirds. He then recommenced firing until there was naught but an audible click, until there was no more movement but the slick trickle, sputter, and surge of sanguine ooze from uncountable gaping holes in trembling flesh marked very shortly for death, as the final crypt-guardian garbed and invisible amidst a pall of shadow covered the eyes of all in endless night of no awaking.

A short story, indeed a quite old one, one that’s nearly two years old.  She’s finally available.  A bit of fun, a bit of satire, punctuated with scenes of devil-may-care social violence.  And when I say “social” I mean in the manner of “socii,” rather than the doctrine of being rude on the train.