weird, walking in a schoolyard. There were swings, shiny green seesaws, and a
metal jungle gym where you could swing from bar to bar. That is, if you were three
feet tall. Kelly grunted, flexing her muscles. She remembered the military
obstacle courses where she’d excelled.
Her nose wrinkled. The air stunk of flowers.
memories of her early school days were foggy. In high school there were splintered
benches, scratchy weeds and cracked windows. She winced at the memory of the
priest’s hard hands beating her bare ass. He panted so hard she knew he had a
hard-on. Kelly snorted. Sometimes she’d fart in his horny face. She dropped out
before she flunked out. Later, she enlisted.
woman at the desk stared, raising an eyebrow as Kelly strode in.
Sgt. Kelly Sloan. They told me to report here.”
“Oh. They told
us you’d be coming.” The woman motioned.
“In there. They’ll be in soon.”
ready for whatever,” Kelly said. War was war. Now, though, the world was mad.
Kids were killing kids. Politicians said the answer was more guns.
The room had a long table and smaller desks with chairs. The
walls were pale blue. Crayoned drawings decorated corkboards in pastel blues and
purples. There were also black silhouettes of human beings for target practice.
her behind, Kelly farted. Training toddlers to shoot. That’s what they needed her
to do. Not really a job for an ex-marine. And they had insisted on a female. Feminism
was bullshit but sometimes it gave you an edge. And the money
was frickin’ good.
Kelly flinched at the whirr of tracer fire. Hidden
snipers fired at her. She whirled, drawing
her weapon. She paused. There was no one there. Frowning, she stroked her
firearm. It was loaded with military grade RIPes, Radically Invasive
Projectiles. She preferred them because,
if one hit you, it split your insides. A wounded enemy could kill you. A dead
one was crap. Since the war ended, there was no one for her to shoot but
a sigh, Kelly holstered the gun. I’ve
gone nuts, she whispered. She rubbed her shaved skull. No, not nuts. PTSD
the docs said. Beer dribbled memories as she drank.
pimple on her nose itched. She squeezed it and burped. She was drinking too
much. “I’m no frickin’ alcoholic,” she muttered. But she needed it. The beer
drowned out the noises in her head.
What the hell am I doing here.
damn old. Abruptly, chatter ricocheted off the walls,
cheery. Little kids filed in, giggling. Pig-tailed piglets in pink damask and
tousle-haired porkies waddled on pudgy legs.
the empty beer can, she squashed it, then hurled the tin into a bin.
a frown, Kelly squared her shoulders and farted. The kids near her shrieked. Grinning,
she laid another one down. It was fun, just like high school. “Haven’t you ever
smelled one before,” she joked.
kids squealed. Kelly raised her arms and displayed her guns,
redhead stuck out her tongue and Kelly growled.
of the kiddies toted new blue backpacks. She guessed they were bursting with
mommy’s chocolate brownies, freshly micro-waved and gooey. Maybe even a furry
Kelly barked, “Attention! And shut the hell up!” Instantly, the kids lined up
in straight rows. Kelly nodded. So, they’d had some training. A squad
of tiny cadets. At her command, they placed their packs down on
down the line, Kelly checked each armored backpack. They were top of the line
with no weak spots
in the laminated Kevlar. Drawing her weapon, Kelly fired in the air. The explosive
sound rocked the room. Plaster
fell from the ceiling where the shell had ripped a jagged hole. Kids were
crying and scattering all over the room. Glaring, she ordered them back. “You have to stand your ground under fire,”
they quieted down, she inspected the blue-metal “Tot-Twenty Sixes” holstered in
a quick-draw pocket of the packs. This latest version of the ‘Tot-Twenty-Two”
had three times the fire power and a smaller grip, easier for little fingers to
grab onto. Nodding, she demonstrated how to operate the safety, how to use a
bore brush, and how to replace the modular magazine. Afterwards, she drilled
them until they whimpered as baby biceps burned.
dripped down Kelly’s arms. She stretched.
She was drenched with sweat but it felt good. Screw the shrink who said she
couldn’t handle it. Flashing a grin, she nodded at the group. When a little
blonde girl dropped her weapon on the ground, Kelly raised a finger in warning.
Then she spat at a curly head who was sobbing. She had to get them ready. A
shooter might break in at any time.
Kelly allowed the kids a milk and cookies break, even gulped a pint, gagging at
the sweetness. When the door opened, Kelly whipped out her weapon. Four young
assistant teachers with blond
braids cried out. Exhaling, Kelly apologized. It was recess.
they left with the kids, Kelly sat alone, gobbling freeze-dried MLRPes. She drummed
her fingers to the jody, Iraqi Blues.
Bored, she stared out the
window at the sexy female assistants, at smooth, lean legs and firm breasts. Diddling
her crotch, Kelly moaned, squeezing her thighs together. Damn it, she knew she
wasn’t getting any.
Kelly drilled the young guns in marksmanship. The kids fired repeatedly at human
brunette doll-face had a sniper’s precision. Kelly felt proud.
jerked at the shrill whine of laser fire. Snipers were everywhere! Whirling,
repeatedly. Explosive blasts reverberated. Then there was silence. A wisp of
smoke curled in the air.
head ached. The only kid left alive sat on the floor and whimpered.
Jan Cronos lives and writes in New York
everything ranging from flash fiction pieces to poems and short stories.