| General Fiction posted October 25, 2015 | Chapters: |
...23 24 -25- 26... 
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a 571 word story
A chapter in the book Short
Peace At Last
by Bill Schott
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
Cecil was proud of himself. He had worked hard and finally achieved a state of peace with the world.
He could still recall how he had been in what seemed like a constant state of fear and anxiety over every daily occurrence.
Some days he would wake wondering if the morning newspaper might come sailing through the window. The boy on the bicycle often hit it as he zipped by on his way to his possible fateful collision with an automobile. That car might well be driven by a young woman, distracted by a meme on her smartphone that depicted a dead raccoon with a 'get well' balloon in its cold dead paw.
On mornings when his remote control for the television didn't work on the first push of a button, he would begin wondering if the power were out due to the electromagnetic pulse of an atomic bomb blast that may have exploded in Detroit and affected the Great Lakes area. Soon, in this suspected scenario, the fallout would poison Lakes Huron, Ontario, Michigan, Erie, and Superior. Those who weren't evaporated by the blast or irradiated beyond survival might well be wandering the mid-west as zombies, seeking a mindless meal of what was left of the still-in-bed masses caught unaware.
Certain days, eye-contact with others who weren't smiling ignited the long-running personal fable that a wide-spread plot existed against him, and that each move he made was being studied and logged in a book that was destined to be labeled as a compilation of un-American acts of sedition performed by Cecil Seasik.
Fortunately, therapy and pharmaceuticals had acted together to create a pacific and serene universe in which he was gently motoring through, like a serrated electric carving knife through the jugular vein of a Tijuana prostitute. A boat trip like that, however, often included the necessity of dismemberment and creative distribution of whore parts all about the local border town in mini-excavations/interments.
He giggled a bit now at how blown away he would have been prior to his release from crippling fear, and the mind-numbing confusion of how to react to even the simplest of concerns.
When the police caught him dropping a couple of severed feet into a shallow hole, he faced his arrest with what could best be described as a Cheshire cat grin. His glistening green eyes and broad, toothy expression, brightly lit by high-powered flashlights, were both appealing and eerie in light of the grisly milieu.
Cecil's trial, were it judged on speed and absence of English, deemed necessary in some legal arenas, when the soon-to-be-convicted, assumed-guilty defendant was not a Spanish speaker, was one for the record books. Within three hours of arrest, Cecil was tried, convicted, and sentenced to face a firing squad. It so happened that the local pimp, the turquoise salesman, a lanky-haired itinerate named Muerte, and the judge were all members of the Tijuana firing squad and were ready to deliver justice right away.
Standing against a partial stone wall that was peppered with finger-sized holes, Cecil faced the five rifle-ready shooters. Amazed at his coolness, he felt that this story would be a terrific example for his doctor to use as to how the wonders of therapy and the conservative application of tension relieving drugs could lead to a well-adjusted attitude and a bright future.
Four bullets missed Cecil entirely, but Muerte's shot ventilated Cecil's peaceful and content mind.
Flash Fiction Writing Contest contest entry
Cecil was proud of himself. He had worked hard and finally achieved a state of peace with the world.
He could still recall how he had been in what seemed like a constant state of fear and anxiety over every daily occurrence.
Some days he would wake wondering if the morning newspaper might come sailing through the window. The boy on the bicycle often hit it as he zipped by on his way to his possible fateful collision with an automobile. That car might well be driven by a young woman, distracted by a meme on her smartphone that depicted a dead raccoon with a 'get well' balloon in its cold dead paw.
On mornings when his remote control for the television didn't work on the first push of a button, he would begin wondering if the power were out due to the electromagnetic pulse of an atomic bomb blast that may have exploded in Detroit and affected the Great Lakes area. Soon, in this suspected scenario, the fallout would poison Lakes Huron, Ontario, Michigan, Erie, and Superior. Those who weren't evaporated by the blast or irradiated beyond survival might well be wandering the mid-west as zombies, seeking a mindless meal of what was left of the still-in-bed masses caught unaware.
Certain days, eye-contact with others who weren't smiling ignited the long-running personal fable that a wide-spread plot existed against him, and that each move he made was being studied and logged in a book that was destined to be labeled as a compilation of un-American acts of sedition performed by Cecil Seasik.
Fortunately, therapy and pharmaceuticals had acted together to create a pacific and serene universe in which he was gently motoring through, like a serrated electric carving knife through the jugular vein of a Tijuana prostitute. A boat trip like that, however, often included the necessity of dismemberment and creative distribution of whore parts all about the local border town in mini-excavations/interments.
He giggled a bit now at how blown away he would have been prior to his release from crippling fear, and the mind-numbing confusion of how to react to even the simplest of concerns.
When the police caught him dropping a couple of severed feet into a shallow hole, he faced his arrest with what could best be described as a Cheshire cat grin. His glistening green eyes and broad, toothy expression, brightly lit by high-powered flashlights, were both appealing and eerie in light of the grisly milieu.
Cecil's trial, were it judged on speed and absence of English, deemed necessary in some legal arenas, when the soon-to-be-convicted, assumed-guilty defendant was not a Spanish speaker, was one for the record books. Within three hours of arrest, Cecil was tried, convicted, and sentenced to face a firing squad. It so happened that the local pimp, the turquoise salesman, a lanky-haired itinerate named Muerte, and the judge were all members of the Tijuana firing squad and were ready to deliver justice right away.
Standing against a partial stone wall that was peppered with finger-sized holes, Cecil faced the five rifle-ready shooters. Amazed at his coolness, he felt that this story would be a terrific example for his doctor to use as to how the wonders of therapy and the conservative application of tension relieving drugs could lead to a well-adjusted attitude and a bright future.
Four bullets missed Cecil entirely, but Muerte's shot ventilated Cecil's peaceful and content mind.
Picture is from Alice in Wonderland site
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