Hey lookit that my short story Summer Cannibals is inside the Big Click:
Here’s a tasty taste:
“Come on you ass, show me what you got. Point that gun at the fucker.”
Guns raised up and for a moment Rob thinks of swinging it over at Toby and pop pop Toby’s head bursts in red. But he doesn’t because it’s just a thought. Thoughts have no weight in reality, not in his reality. Here, all his thoughts float away and go up and up are eaten by that hungry greedy moon. No, he clears his head and points that gun at the scarecrow.
It’s got a black bag over its head, and arms bound around its back. For a moment, just a single moment, Rob thinks it’s moving. It’s moving and someone is trapped in there. He knows it, he feels it in his gut, that this scarecrow is just a person, trapped. He thinks of people being stolen away with black bags over their heads and shoved into white vans. Part of him wants to scream and cry but instead he just fires the gun. It sounds like a canon and his arm jerks back and he realizes his eyes water up. Not tears, but something else, something like tears.
The scarecrow moves back with the blast of the bullet. Arms break free and straw scatters around them. For a moment Rob lets out his breath. Not a person. Not a person at all.
“Nice shot cowboy, nice shot. Don’t think it’s good enough though. Don’t ever think it’s good enough.”
Rob laughs, wipes his eyes with his sleeve.
“Yeah right, never good enough. Come on, you go. Let’s see how good you are.”
Toby smirks with moustache smirking and laughs. “Oh boy, come on now. You know what I got. You know it.”
He pulls his hand up and doesn’t even aim, doesn’t move doesn’t twitch. Rob watches him and thinks this is like painting. Like Toby is painting the air with smoke and fire and bullets and death. He holds his breath as Toby pulls the trigger so fast, so many shots, and doesn’t even blink or twitch or anything.
He holds the smoking gun up to his lips then and blows on it. “Bad ass. That’s what I am, bad ass. Come on junior, let’s keep going. We need to get you good. Come on now.”
“Don’t call me junior.”
Laughs, pats him in the back.
“I’ll stop it when you grow the fuck up. Now come on, show me some more, lay it down. Give that scarecrow another whallop.”
For a moment Rob pulls the gun up, right up to his mouth, his hands folded around it like he’s praying, like he’s asking for some Saint some angel some god of some sort to come down and take the gun from his hands. Or to just have the gun go off in his face and stop it all for once, just stop it all.