Chocolate and Death #WEPFF Flash Fiction

https://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com/2023/07/wep-august-challenge-chocolat-post.html

Flash Fiction

Chocolate and Death

By Jamie Dorner

*TRIGGER WARNINGS= Murder-suicide, alcohol, language, pedophilia, abortion laws, cancer, house fire.

Tagline: A tragic, controversial, trigger-heavy realistic fiction.
MPA 950 words

I start the fire on a pile of split wood dipped in kerosene outside. A slow burn will give me time. I march into the house. His bowling trophies adorn the mudroom. I knock each one over, watching the precious awards break, stomping on them to be sure none survive. I tip the vodka bottle over the shattered remains. 

"Cheers to your victories, asshole." 

I remember the first time he celebrated a win after I moved in. I was ten.

"Just like the number of pins and frames!" 

I cried harder that night than the months before, when I was mourning my parents. I tried to tell, tried to get help. Everyone cut me off, saying how grateful I must be that my Uncle Cyprus took me in. 

I pour more vodka around the kitchen as I search. There's always a box hidden somewhere. 

The den has a pile of unopened mail. Bills from the hospital. Bright red envelopes from collection agencies. Three stacks of envelopes from places that will never get paid. Cyprus has no life insurance. I take a swig of the vodka. No reason not to drink. I rub my abdomen. Nope, no reason at all. 

Once the desk drawers are flung about, and the vodka is poured out, I leave the room. I grab another bottle from the liquor cart in the living room. There must be a box somewhere, but I haven't found it yet. I knock all the pictures off the mantle. Cyprus with my dad. Cyprus with his bowling team. Cyprus with his car. No pictures of me. My parents' mantle had many pictures of me, of us together, and of their wedding. Love and hope, reasons to live. I soak his pictures with alcohol. I wish I could erase him from the world, to destroy all proof he existed. 

I yank his autographed baseball bat off the wall and head to the bathroom. I take a quick chug from the bottle before I start smashing. Seven years of bad luck for breaking a mirror? I've already had those! I glare at the motion-activated cameras he has hidden and flip them off. Let his perverted subscribers see. My final showing will be one of death and destruction. 

The smoke alarm blares as I head down the hall. My slow-burning fire has finally gotten inside. Good. But I still want to find a box.

I go into his room. This is where I made my choice. I kick his bloody body. "I know you've got a box of them somewhere. I'm going to find them. The very last box ever."

His corpse remains silent. I throw dresser drawers on him as I search. Finally, in his nightstand, I find the treasure. His Bible, as if he has any idea what that book is about, a clip of extra bullets, and the last box of chocolates. I take the box and kick the bullet hole I put in his head. 

"Told you I'd find them." I take another swig of vodka and then pour the remainder of the bottle on him and his drawers of clothing. 

I head to my room. On my desk are printouts from the doctors. Most are about my cancer and the treatment plan. Then there's one which states that I'm pregnant and thus ineligible for cancer treatment. Next is an official state document warning that I will face murder charges if the pregnancy isn't successful. Except, without the treatments, I won't survive into the second trimester. The paper on the top has a fuzzy ultrasound image attached. The fetus is deformed and underdeveloped because of my cancer. 

Humming to myself, I fill my stolen needle and then inject each chocolate. I look at the teddy bear with the webcam eye.

"I wanted to live. Just four more months and I would have been eighteen. I could have left legally. The cops brought me back three times before. But as an adult, I would have been free! Getting me knocked up might have held me back for a little longer. It's illegal to cross state lines without permission while pregnant. But my cancer-ridden body is murdering the fetus. It's illegal to grant needed medical care here in my condition. So, since I'd be dying while imprisoned for murder, I saw no reason not to kill Cyprus."

I pop a chocolate into my mouth. It oozes on my tongue. The poison stings, but the chocolate still tastes sweet. Puffs of smoke sneak under my bedroom door. 

"This is gonna be a snuff film. I hope you all get caught watching it. I hope the authorities find each and every one of you and lock you up on charges of child pornography." I eat another chocolate. "I sent copies of his computer stuff to the FBI and six news agencies. Hopefully, someone bothers to check."

It's harder to enjoy the next chocolate. The poison is fast-acting. My damaged bedroom door has tiny flames in the cracks. 

"Please know that I do not regret my choices. If I could have prevented him from molesting me, I would have. If I could have avoided him impregnating me, I would have. I'd gladly do any cancer treatment offered. I would have fought to live. And I'd have left without killing him. Yes, I thought about it. That murder was absolutely premeditated. I am grateful to be guilty of it. I might have left him alive. This is better." 

The last chocolate passes over my lips. It sticks to the roof of my mouth as my eyes close. The world fades away as the treat he always denied me mixes with my final breath. 

---

This story takes place in America. 

It may or may not be currently legal for a pregnant minor to cross state lines. There was some debate as to if human beings are the property of a state, or if that would be similar to the terms of slavery. Also, it's difficult to enforce as there's not much separating most states. 

Miscarriages may or may not be illegal, and may or may not come with a murder charge. The removal of a fetus which has a failure to thrive and has no signs of survival is also called abortion, but not removing it causes toxins that kill the host.

In some states, a pregnancy test must be done before anyone with a vagina can receive any healthcare treatment (like an Xray) that could risk a potential fetus, even when not getting that treatment immediately can mean the patient dies.

Many treatments can be denied in certain states even if there is absolutely no possible way the fetus can survive long enough in a dying host to be a viable birth -- which is the case in this story. She has been denied cancer treatment because of the pregnancy, but the fetus would never have been born anyway, it could never develop lungs or other needed organs, and the cancer will win. If she were permitted to have treatment, she might go on to have many children, maybe become the scientist who cures cancer, who knows. The fetus is no longer viable at the start of this story. The main character is dead at the end of this story. 

I'm sure there are people out there who believe cancer patients deserve to die if they're impregnated against their will. I don't. So I wrote this. 

Here are a few links, if this story doesn't seem like "realistic fiction" to you:

https://www.politico.com/news/2022/03/19/travel-abortion-law-missouri-00018539

https://www.pbs.org/newshour/show/idaho-criminalizes-helping-minors-travel-out-of-state-to-get-an-abortion

https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2023/03/01/1158364163/3-abortion-bans-in-texas-leave-doctors-talking-in-code-to-pregnant-patients

https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-59214544

https://www.npr.org/2022/07/03/1109015302/abortion-prosecuting-pregnancy-loss
https://www.nytimes.com/2023/08/09/us/politics/ohio-abortion-issue-1-takeaways.html

I'll close with a comment I left on a NanoLand post on Facebook about a political fiction story idea that amuses me. Fiction, because there's no possible way a strong Latina and a Drag Queen will win a presidential election anytime soon. I mean, I'd vote for it, but the MAGA Reps would sooner start a war.

https://www.facebook.com/groups/NaNoWriMoparticipants/permalink/10167992311155637
https://www.ocasiocortez.com -- AOC website
https://maebeagirlforcongress.org

WEP Please Read the Letter #WEPFF Flash Fiction Story Scene

https://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com/2022/05/wep-june-challenge-is-on-with-more.html

This month's prompt is based on Please Read the Letter by Robert Plant and Alison Krauss - a break up song and a moving plea for understanding at the termination of a relationship. Neither of these musicians need an introduction of course, both have umpteen awards to their names individually. The album Raising Sand where the track is included is a platinum with more than a million sold. The song was first composed and recorded by Robert Plant and Jimmy Page and appeared on their album Walking into Clarksdale in 1998. It was rerecorded later again by Plant and Krauss in 2007 and was well received by critics. It went on to win the Grammy for the Record of the Year in 2009.

I never heard this song before, or of Plant or Krauss. Guess I live under a rock.

Anywho, I am using a scene from my WIP. (Another scene was in Write Club. Round 10) It's political fiction. Bess is the main character and narrator. Her name doesn't come up in this scene. Here's a glimpse at part of her character sketch.


The scene opens with Bess lounging on the upper deck of her house. https://www.pinterest.com/JamieWriter7/double-deck-porch/ I don't know how common double decks are around the world. Better setting descriptions are in the main story. So there's a link to one of my Pinterest boards, in case you've never seen a multi-story deck and are having a difficult time picturing this. It isn't very different from a balcony, except there are stairs outside that link it to a deck, porch, or patio below.

Konnor is exactly two years older than Bess. (He was born Jan 30, 2001. She was born Jan 30, 2003.) Riq has been his friend since childhood. There's some conflict as Riq (and his family) are part of a Christian terrorist group that claims it's a church; whereas Konnor has been exploring Wicca.

The actual story opens in May 2020. This scene takes place somewhere between June to July 2021. 😷 Bess is vaccinated and wears a mask. Konnor and Riq are opposed to Covid protections and are anti-vaxxers. However, Konnor has agreed to keep six feet apart from his sister because her doctors made a big stink about how vulnerable her craniopharyngioma makes her to Covid-19. This scene is NOT ABOUT Covid, but when you see how the siblings move around each other, well, that's why. 

Trigger warning: There is a pro-life/ pro-choice abortion mention. The place mentioned is based on a real location in my area where real protestors were really charged after assaulting a real person. 

Tagline: Hate jumps to conclusions. 
Scene Title: No Longer Yours
Author: Jamie 
Words: 984  FCA

When we were little, I nicknamed Riq "Rikki-Tikki-Tavi," after the story of the mongoose. I stopped calling him that when he was about fourteen and I was thirteen. He got weird around me, which is difficult to describe. I felt uncomfortable around him and avoided being alone together. I attempted to talk to mom about it, but she didn't process what I was saying. She went on about what a nice boy he is. Told me that he mowed his grandfather's lawn. 

If today, Riq doesn't want his conversation with my brother overheard, they can go elsewhere. Or tell me to buzz off, as usual. I'm not intentionally eavesdropping. I'm lounging on the upper deck, clearly visible to anyone below who happens to look up.

Riq hands a red envelope to Konnor. "I need you to deliver this tomorrow after I'm gone."

Konnor turns it over. "What is it?"

"I was going to leave it nailed to Valentina's door. But I don't know if I want her parents or siblings to find it. Part of me does. I want to go to her father and tell him why I've broken up with her. Let him deal with that mess."

"What? You're breaking up with your girl?" Konnor puts the letter on the lid of the grill.

"I was going to propose before I leave for Montana. That's when I ran into Mike Bog at the pawn shop."

"The pawn shop?" My brother asks the dumbest questions. Ask why he's breaking up with her!

"Yeah. Figured I could afford a ring there. Anyway, you know how Mike is always protesting and preaching, trying to get people to follow The Word?"

Konnor nods as he scratches his black nail polish.

"He told me things. In fact, he pulled out his phone and showed me proof. Bro, she's been cheating on me. Giving it up to some guy. And then…" Riq hangs his head. "I can't say it. I'm ashamed for her, and of her, and of myself for having dated her. There's no way I can break up with her face to face. I'm too angry, too disgusted. I've been chewing on it for a week."

"Explains why you blew us off on the weekend. Man, that sucks. I thought you two were rock solid. She hook up with someone we know? Anyone I need to keep from sniffing around here?" Konnor tilts his head, motioning to my room, toward the deck I'm sitting on. 

Riq looks up to where Konnor indicated. He spots me and scowls. "How long you been spying on us?"

My spine snaps straight and the hair on my arms rises to attention. "What?" I tug at my ears, pulling out earbuds that aren't really there. "Couldn't hear you?"

"I asked what you're listening to."

"Expectations by Three Days Grace." Yes, I just went with one of my favorite songs. Riq's eyes narrow, then he turns his attention back to my brother.

"I don't know. Talk to Mike if you want. I know you two don't run in the same circles much. Or ask the traitor when you drop that off tomorrow."

Konnor nods. "Keep in touch, yeah?"

They do that guy handshake and half-hug move before Riq leaves. Konnor carries the envelope inside. 

____

I head downstairs to grab dinner. The red envelope is on the steps. "Please Read This" is written on the front. I know it isn't for me, but how can I resist such an invitation?

Valentina, 

Mike Bog saw you at the Women's Clinic on South Commerce. You've been cheating on me. Worse yet, you killed a baby to hide evidence that you cheated and that you aren't a virgin. I could maybe forgive the cheating. I could even maybe forgive you for breaking our vow to wait for each other until we got married. But abortion? I don't know who you are anymore. We don't share the same values. I suspected as much when you went out and got that godless vaccine. Prayer alleviates all and prevents diseases. If your faith was strong enough, you wouldn't need a vaccine, and wouldn't be having relations outside of marriage. 

“Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God? You are not your own, for you were bought with a price. So glorify God in your body.” - 1 Corinthians 6:19-20

You reap what you sow. I need more in a woman than you can give me. Faith, trust, and fidelity; all qualities I no longer believe you have or value. Our relationship is over. Please do not contact me.

No longer yours, 

Riq

"Put it down!" Konnor hisses when he finds me. 

"Sorry. I saw an envelope that said to read— "

"I know what it says! It isn't for you. Put it down." He takes a step closer. I double-check my mask before setting the letter and envelope on the steps. "He's wrong, you know."

"Riq can break up in a letter if he wants. Not your business."

I come down the steps. Konnor and I keep six feet apart as we switch spots, him heading upstairs. "Valentina goes there for laser hair removal."

"What?" Konnor folds the letter and eases it back into the envelope. "You don't know anything about this."

"Okay. If you say so. But I'm right. It takes a couple of months to do a spot." I place my finger above my lip. "Guess Riq isn't much of a kisser if he didn't notice the change."

"Who would go to an abortion clinic for hair removal?"

I shrug. "Who would call a hair removal place an abortion clinic? The Women's Clinic on South Commerce has lots of other health services. That's like calling a grocery store a magazine stand. Technically you can buy magazines there, but that's not their primary revenue."

The Regret Scream #WEPFF #WEP Flash Fiction and Memorial Obituaries

This part isn't my entry, but it is an excerpt from the project I plan to work on during NaNoWriMo this year, and it includes a scream:


Link to my NaNoWriMo project.

During Covid-19, a teen craniopharyngioma survivor masks and vaccinated, but her family is opposed. She's dead to them for using precautions. But is she ACTUALLY dead?

When I had craniopharyngioma I wondered what might happen if I died. What would it be like for my birthday-twin brother on our birthday? Or for our parents?
Well, now I know.



Onto the entry:

Where this Scream story came from--

💭

I had a f🤬ked up dream nightmare that the antimaskers won. And everyone just gave up on fighting Covid. The death toll was 80 million a year worldwide, but everyone was okay with it. "We're fighting global warming! The bodies of the dead are keeping us warm!" Public places, like malls and museums, were buying dead bodies to burn. People were the new firewood. Except there were scientists on tv pleading, "the zeta variant can be transmitted after death. The burning bodies are spreading the virus. We will go extinct!"

😷

#tagline = The Regret Scream is a dystopian flash fiction where Covid is also spread by burning infected bodies, and an antimasker commits manslaughter.

993 words FCA

---

The Regret Scream

Smoke rises from old chimneys, darkening the air and dirtying the laundry that had been hung out to dry. I cough, hack, and wheeze while pulling my bedsheets from the clothesline. My neighbor watches from her porch. I know she wants to yell that I ought to wear a mask. She was always Covid-shaming people in our neighborhood. That's outlawed talk now. I nod to her, giving a smirk the equivalent of a middle finger.

A bell rings as a cart comes to my street. I head to the curb.

"Bring out your dead!" The bell chimes again as the cart nears. It stops at my house. "Anyone for me today, Jimbo?"

I shake my head. "I can't believe you're doing this job."

Nurse Falcone rings his bell again. "Eh, beats the old days. No one vomits on me, I don't empty bedpans, and there are no complaints when I take a bathroom break."

We wave goodbye. In the former times, I delivered flowers. Nurse Falcone was often on duty when I dropped off my daily bouquets. Then the vaccine mandate for healthcare workers was enacted and he quit. When the mandate was expanded to delivery folk, I quit too. Weren't many flowers going anywhere but funeral homes by then anyway.

I take the bus to my sister's place. This transport is too loud, always has been. But since it runs on renewables, it's one of the few things that works anymore. I miss my car. Gasoline prices topped out at $30 a gallon, a price beyond what anyone could afford, so the stations mostly shut down. The bus passes what was once an Exxon station. Valdez seemed like the worst they'd deal with once. Graffiti of colorful curse words shows that worse came to pass. The company went bankrupt, laying off the surviving six thousand employees. They claimed the other eight thousand had died in under a year. Probably a bluff to get a government bailout. We can't afford their gasoline so they take our tax dollars instead. Typical! 

Cans and fishing line try to trip me up as I approach my sister's place. Boobytraps to keep people away from her door. She's unhinged, but she's my sister.

"Trish! It's Wednesday," I holler while knocking on her door. 

An upstairs window slides open. "Yeah? There been a change?"

I roll my eyes. "No. That mean you're still not gonna let me in? I came across town on one of those stupid busses. Have a meal with your only brother."

"And then who would take care of our only mother? Bad enough you have me opening this window."

"It isn't airborne you tool! Stop buying into the propaganda. Come on, it's just dinner."

Why did I come here? I fold my hands over my head as she sobs. "I can't. I want to, but it isn't safe. Please get vaccinated and quarantine in the tent so I can let you in. Mom and I miss you."

Stupid sheep. Before she can protest, I leap up a tree and climb to her window. "Stop living in fear. You and mom need to get out."

I yank down her mask, kiss her nose, and then drop back down to the door. She screams and cries as I walk away. 

She'll see. When she's fine in a week, two weeks, maybe a month. She'll see the world isn't dangerous, and neither am I.

No dinner here, so I trudge down to the mall. Flopping onto a bench, I wait for my coughing fit to end. Probably just thirsty. 

The mostly abandoned former shopping mecca looms before me. Half of it is an assisted living facility, and part is apartments, but the food court is thriving. The major chains all went under, crying that they couldn't get workers. People rather starve than work. Acting like a line cook and a CEO both deserve enough pay for a big house, childcare, food, medical care, and whatever else. Now those former line cooks are bodies in the fire pit. Everything is roasted over them. I get a squab and squash skewer to eat on the bus ride home.

~

Fourteen days pass. There's a knock on my door. 

"Jim Bobalda?" Two medical officers in bio-suits ask. 

"Yeah?" They require a swab and fingerprints verification. The machine beeps and a red light comes on. "What? Am I not me?"

"Sir, you're infected. Probably got it from a burning body. Are you vaccinated? Wear a mask?"

"Hell no I ain't vaccinated." I rip off my shirt, showing my tattoo. "Face Freedom Force! No masks."

The officers exchange glances and take a step back before consulting their device again. "We've come to inform you of the death of your mother and sister. Based on this swab, you carry the strand they were infected by. Did you have contact?"

"What?" My knees give out.

"Contact. Have you had contact in the last five to twenty days?"

"Yeah. Trish and I were supposed to have dinner two weeks ago. She didn't let me in though."

They exchange glances. "No mask?"

I press my forehead to the ground. This can't be real. It can't be true. I hear them repeat the question, but they're a million miles away.

Someone grabs my arm. There's a siren in the distance. Someone says they're the police.

"What?" I say again, hoping I heard wrong. That my family isn't dead, isn't gone.

Metal tightens against my wrist. 

"A security camera caught it. He infected them. Can't make these types vaccinate or wear a mask, but certainly can haul them away for manslaughter."

Miranda rights are recited three times as I'm carted off. 

Trish and mom are probably in a cart. Bodies sold by whoever found them. I can't even say goodbye.

"No!" I hear the scream. It isn't until my throat aches that I realize I'm the one screaming. I grab my face. If only I had worn a mask.

---

I know two people who are battling multiple myeloma right now. 😕
I mentioned last WEP that two of my relatives have serious cancer. Well, one of them, that's the kind of cancer. The other was brain cancer, which was my mother-in-law, and she has now passed away.
Frankly, I've had enough of death. My brother-in-law died of an infection. 19 days later, my mom had a heart attack and died 💔, and 19 days after that is when my mother-in-law died. 
So I'm done. 
None of my writing right now is especially "good." It's anger and pain. This is me, SCREAMING.

My brother called me that morning to say my dad was taking my mom to the hospital because she was feeling a little weird, weak and dizzy. She was diabetic and it was early, so I thought maybe just low blood sugar. 🍪 I thought they'd feed her a cookie and she'd be okay. But then I got this text from my dad. And I screamed "WHAT" for nearly an hour. 

I drafted the first half of this post before the triple-death-blows. I'm going to attempt Nano, but I'm not as amped up about it as usual. If I manage to write at all, that'll be a "win" to me. 

In memory:

(Some of you also know my husband's cousin, J Lenni Dorner. Obviously he was related, distantly, too, and is also devastated by these losses.)

Reflection #AtoZchallenge 2020, Alton Brown Love, and a Short Story #FlashFiction LGBTQIA+

• I managed to get all my posts done this year! 
• I also entered WriteClub 2020. 🤞 
• I worked on my writing. 
• I entered a flash fiction contest (tied for second).
• I celebrated my 13th wedding anniversary – we even opened the wine we were saving.
• I fell behind on journaling. 
• I didn't keep up with my commenting. 
• I'm behind on email replies.
• I've had several arguments on Facebook with people who... don't share my belief in the seriousness of the pandemic. 

Our special drink to celebrate our anniversary.

Look what I spotted on an old episode of Desperate Housewives. A to Z Yellow Pages.

Biolidics, a company from Singapore, has a rapid test for the virus! Video: facebook.com/nasdaily



Wear a mask! Support the United States Postal Service! 📬 Follow Alton Brown's Quarantine Quitchen on YouTube because he, his wife, and their two dogs are adorable! 💑🐶🐕


That's the prompt and this is my entry (this was before I saw the show Upload). (Trigger warnings: current pandemic, LGBTQIA+)


Welcome to Third Life _ _ _

Username:
Password:

"You just pick your name and password to get started. Think to type," the sales representative says as she rearranges my bedside table.

"Right. But this isn't a regular website."

"The instructions are all on the screen. At any time, say 'exit' and an option to quit will appear."

"What happens if I quit?"

She gnaws on her lip before answering. "I've never seen that happen. But you are free to leave any time."

"Why did you pause?"

"Because I'm in the world. I had to cancel and close my box after saying the word. Any other questions you have are answered in the program," she says as she leaves.

I probably shouldn't do this. But she looked so real! I could smell her, and it wasn't a cleaning product scent, but perfume. Her skin felt real to my touch. That's what skin still feels like, right? Anyone who comes in here hides behind a biohazard suit, as do I. She didn’t need to.

I click the FAQ.

Do I have to use my real name?

—  No! In Third Life you can be your most true self, whoever you feel that is. Upgrades and changes for your avatar are purchasable. Usernames are permanent but in-game IDs can be altered for a fee.

I type a username and password. I've seen Avatar and the Matrix movies. And I played SecondLife for years. I know this isn't much different. Except those were movies and a game. This is real life.

Real life? I think that ended back in Nineteen or Twenty. Reality tumbled into a portal dimension of country-sized fires, quakes, sickness, and building-sized asteroids.

The screen starts with an avatar that looks like me. Or, at least, the me that was. Back when smiles weren't hidden behind masks. Hair that was cut and styled: what a memory!

This biohazard suit is like my closet. I dared not come out of it before. I've pretended to be Cis to survive. But the avatars that live in the world are without violence. I can be my real self now.

I scroll through base avatars until I find what I want. There. The body that reflects who I feel I look like.

Hours have passed by the time I've perfected making my avatar. I step out into the world for the first time as my true self.

What will happen to my birth body? They say the avatar never dies. But my birth body was about to expire. I survived the first two virus waves, but won't survive cardiomyopathy. If I exit, is that suicide?

When my birth body dies the biohazard suit, my closet, will be discarded. So I'm out. There's no going back. I'm going to have to live as my true self among the remaining thirty-million survivors. Is that a silver lining, or a tinfoil one?



How was your April? I hope you liked my story.

Caged Bird #WEPFF Flash Fiction My Terms

http://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com/2019/06/june-wepiwsg-challenge-sign-up-caged.html

My story is controversial and may contain subject matter not suitable for all readers. So I'm sharing this Aerosmith song which also has a lyric about a caged bird, for those who would prefer that.



🎵 "I think that you should let your caged bird fly." 🎵



Story content / trigger warning: dystopian future, pro-choice, mass-shooting, suicide, genocide. 962 words NCCO

My Terms 

by Jamie

I was there when the shots rang out in the Capitol Building. Screams accompanied a stampede. More shots echoed as agents yelled for people to move or to get down. Three women left in handcuffs within minutes. I arrested one of them.

"We are the last of the Female Assasins. Killing those who destroy society is encouraged, rewarded even. It is not a crime," the oldest looking one tells me. Her short, gray hair blows back and forth as the interrogation room fan hits her. She doesn't seem to mind, unlike me, who can already feel my neck stiffening.

"We are time travelers. We have no peers in this time. Therefore, you cannot put us on trial. Not that we've committed a crime, as you insinuated."

There isn't enough coffee in the world for me to do this job. What is it about Mondays that brings out the crazy?

"In fifty years, there is only the Unwanted left. They are infertile, by choice or birth. We are the last three Female Assassins. No males remain with which to breed. We came here to kill the ones who made choices that end humanity."

I rub my temples. "Fifty years from now seven billion people are dead?"

"Some were cooked. But most were starved by the Unwanted. They are not peaceful or reasonable. We three Assassins survived because we killed to live. The Unwanted control all the remaining food and knowledge. We kidnapped one to learn time travel. They do not use this technology. And why should they? The world exists for them."

"Why are they called the Unwanted if the world exists for them?"

"You once called them foster children. But the system was overrun, about ten years from today. Millions of them. They rule a revolution. Within eight years they sterilized themselves. Then there's the drug in the water, which causes any new ones to be born unable to breed."

I chew on my pen cap as I try to keep a straight face. "You expect me to believe this?"

She scratches the back of her wrinkled hand. "We didn't come here to be believed. We came here to prevent a problem."

I nod. "See, the thing is that you created a new problem. Murdering some high valued targets in plain view, being seen doing it, means I have to deal with you. Not the best assassins, are you?"

"This was a one-way trip. We accept death. Or you can send me back to prison. At least this time, it will be for a choice."

I lean back in my metal chair. "So, you're in the system?"

"Not yet. Next year the version of me from your time will be. She's going to miscarry. And as she lies screaming on the hospital bed, blood still wet on her legs, someone like you will arrest her. Three point five million prisoners by next year."

"There's just over two million right now. Lady, we can't house that many."

She laughs. "You'll convert old shopping malls, abandoned apartments, even some schools. In five years, female prisoners become the fifth-largest export. You can't kill them here. So they're sent off to be tortured to death elsewhere. That's when the second wave of the rebellion commences."

I look at my empty coffee mug. Bourbon would be better. "Second wave, hmm? What's the first?"

"A few days from now, the My Terms riots will commence, that becomes the first wave. A string of three-way suicides sets it off."

"Three-way suicides?" She's obviously planning to plead insanity.

"A pregnant 19-year-old rape victim is first. A fist full of pills, arteries sliced open, face down in a bucket of water. The words My Terms scrolled in blood on her college dorm wall."

Guess that's how you make sure you die.

"The second is a 13-year-old, pregnant by her step-father according to the autopsy. Hung herself after downing pills and shooting enough drugs to destroy her heart. Same words, though she wrote them with lipstick."

I'm grateful I haven't eaten recently. Need to remember I'm talking to a crazy old woman who just shot up Congress.

"A mother of three is next. She left a note. Couldn't get treatment while pregnant. She didn't want her children to watch her suffer, nor would she land herself in jail when her cervical cancer inevitably resulted in a miscarriage. Signed the note with the phrase My Terms. Drank drain cleaner, then shot herself while leaping from a tall building."

"You're telling me a bunch of pregnant women are going to kill themselves, and that's why you opened fire in Congress?"

She scratches the back of her hand, breaking the skin this time. "I am telling you that's how it starts. They die, and then people riot. Hundreds more die. Thousands are arrested. More women go to jail. More people riot or protest, also landing in the big house."

"Do you want a tissue or a bandage for that?"

"There are those who will not become caged birds. My Terms means dying your own way, taking triple precautions to ensure it. Like a time-release poison capsule, having an organ sliced so you're bleeding internally, and having a cardio-wire that can be tricked into stopping your heart."

I look at her hand. She touches a wire sticking out where she was scratching. A moment later, she's face down on the table. I curse, my chair falling as I bolt up and rip the door open. "Help!"

Two other interrogation rooms are open. I hear someone yell, "Clear!" A stretcher is beside my desk. My boss runs toward me with the defibrillator from the breakroom. The television behind him shows a reporter outside a college campus, the caption under her reporting the suicide of a pregnant 19-year-old.



https://twitter.com/JoshDorner/status/1126276417921134592

https://www.businessinsider.com/women-30-years-prison-miscarriage-georgia-abortion-2019-5

From a writing prompt

Actual writing ahead!
A short story/ flash fiction from a prompt. A closed writers' group on Facebook hosts this thing.

THE TWINS AND THE PIT

“Sometimes, love means clinging on to someone, and sometimes it means letting them go.” I flex my fingers around her hands.

“No! You promised not to let go,” her eyes widen, her attempt to sound authoritative overridden by the fear oozing from her voice.

“But when you love someone, sometimes you have to let go,” I manage not to laugh, to keep my voice serious.

Her fingernails dig into my skin. “You will not drop me. I'll tell mom about your box.”

“What box?” I tighten my grip. The kids behind me light up with chatter.

She smiles up at me, her hands relaxing. “Seventh floorboard from the door. I took a video of what's in there. And I backed it up on my friend's cloud drive. Oh, and I have another of you from last Tuesday, when you added to the box. It's not clear what's in that bag you were carrying, but you take it to your room, and then there's the sound of the board moving, and then you come out with an empty bag and insult me. Mom will certainly put it together.”

“Slimy twit! You're not supposed to spy on me.”

My twin sister rolls her eyes. “Pull me up. We've won.”

“Which friend?”

“What?”

I let go of one of her hands. “Which friend has the backup copy?”

“You're not going to let me fall!” Her dropped hand reaches for me. She tries to yank herself up. We both know she can't.

The kids behind me snicker until I turn my head toward them. “Anyone not wanting to land in the pit should leave. Now.”

No one doubts my resolve. They run like roaches from the light. I turn toward my twin.

“If you drop me, mom will ask what happened, and I'll tell her why you let me fall.”

“When I drop you, it'll take time for you to get out. And you'll be covered in the goo of the pit. I'll get home first. I'll tell mom you jumped, and that you've been planting evidence against me. I'll show her the box and say it's yours. That I was keeping something else in there. Her mind will be made up before you get home.”

“No! No, you can't do that. Help me up. Just help me up. I'll get rid of the videos. And the backups.”

“And you won't spy on me again?”

She shakes her head. A tear slips out and rolls down her cheek. It drops to the goo far below.

But what is one tear compared to wax, mud, decaying plants, bits of trash, and thousands of insects? They say the pit was once for swimming in. That important people raced around in it, back when it was full of pristine water. Back when there was so much water that people wasted it for things like that.

Now we just hold each other over it and see who can keep their partner from falling in the longest. My sister and I hold all the records.

“Which friend has the backup?”

“Sett,” my sister answers with a huff.

“Poinsettia? You gave her the backup copy? Why her?”

“Like she's storing anything else on her cloud? Besides, she's the only one who wouldn't turn on me and blackmail you herself.”

“No, Fuzzbrain, I'm the only one who wouldn't turn on you.” I lift my sister up. She's clean, as always, because I've never let her fall into the pit. And I never would. But she doesn't need to know that.

“Why do you have that stuff in the box, anyway?”

“You aren't old enough to understand.”

She punches my arm as we walk home. “I'm the same age as you, Troll.”

“I've matured faster.”

“You wish. Race you to our front door?”