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 Category:  Commentary and Philosophy Fiction
  Posted: February 11, 2018      Views: 74

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Winslow is a person who enjoys reading and writing. Once a chemist, now retired, no longer constrained by truth or technology. Free to write in any genre, what a blast! Still a sculpted body but alas one quite old. Outdoor activities such as biking a - more...

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Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.
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A flash fiction tale
"Heat" by Winslow



Scott grabbed the pillow and turned it over. Mildred softly snored, and he envied her. The bedroom was stifling.

 At the end of summer they still had daytime highs of over a hundred. Thanks to years of environmental abuse, the global temperature had risen. The availability of power for air conditioning was limited.  

Scott sighed. How much more of this can I take? The heat caused people to become violent.  Every day there were one or more mass shootings. It was just a matter of time before one of his students acted. In 2037 the violence was so widespread that SWAT teams were deployed in the schools.

He must have dozed off because the alarm buzzed.  Mildred groaned. “I thought we could sleep in”

“Try and go back to sleep. I have to go in to school today to meet with the superintendent and the parents of Cameron Winsted.  I’ll stop at Dunkin Donuts for breakfast.”

 Across town, Cameron peered out the window at the empty parking lot and Scott Barron’s reserved spot. You son- of- a- bitch. I’ll show you for failing me in English.

The metallic odor of blood mixed with the smell of bloated flesh filled the house.  In the kitchen, his mother’s body sprawled face down.  Her head had a hole in the back and blood had pooled under her face.  

In the hallway lay the body of his old man. He’d shot him in the chest and he’d fallen over backward.
On Friday night, he’d told them he failed English and wouldn’t graduate..

His father’s face had reddened, and he shouted, “Go to your room.”

His old man followed him down the hallway kneeing him in the ass and yelling, “What a miserable fuck of a son.”
At the bedroom he entered, slammed the door shut, raced  to the bed, and grabbed the pistol.  His dad pounded on the door. Cameron jerked it open and shot him.
Tears wet his face as he ran to the kitchen. His mother got out of her chair and turned away when he pointed the gun. Sobs racked her, and she screamed, “Don’t!” but he squeezed the trigger.
 He cried and pleaded, “Why didn’t you ever support me? I hate you.”

Cameron turned from the window and went outside. Dressed in black, he crossed over the darkened street, and hid in the bushes lining the parking lot.

Seventy-five minutes later, Scott arrived and parked in his spot.  He opened the door and got out.

Cameron jumped out of the bushes, grinned, and pointed the gun. “Goodbye, fucker.”

A shot rang out, Cameron’s head exploded, and he crumpled.  Scott’s eyes widened, he shook, and fell.

On the roof top, the sniper slumped and wiped his brow. He had managed to get his shot off before the shooter’s.

 A little while later, Scott felt a hand on his shoulder. “You all right Mr. Barron? The ambulance and police are on the way.  You’ll live to celebrate your retirement after all.”  


Flash Fiction Writing Contest contest entry


Author Notes
Hope this doesn't come true.

Thanks to David Ruhl for this hot picture.
Pays one point and 2 member cents. Artwork by David Ruhl at

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