Author Topic: Patriot Fiction (my first attempt)  (Read 1916 times)

Offline CitizenWriter

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Patriot Fiction (my first attempt)
« on: June 17, 2016, 06:54:58 AM »
Hello. I am new to this forum and a college student, aspiring to be a fiction writer. In an effort to practice my craft (and as an outlet for my ANGER at the attacks here on the homeland recently), I decided to write a series of short stories, what I am calling Patriot micro fiction.

I wrote this story, Ted, in a quick burst of inspiration last night after visiting a local mall with my family.
All criticism welcomed! God Bless.

[Warning: Too graphic for kids to read]


Ted Brooks, his birth certificate said Thomas Dunncan Brooks but his childhood nickname 'Ted' stuck with him into middle age, could not remember the last time he was this hungry.

Fortunately he was at the mall which just happened to have a Taco Bell. After slipping away from his wife, though not before she asked him to carry the large bag from Sears containing a new set of steak knives and the new belt he had meaning to get for some time, he tried to think what he was going to eat. What was that new item they were advertising on TV? Something with a crunchy wrap. His mouth was starting to water in anticipation.

He walked out of the shoe store, where his wife could not decide on which pair of boots to buy, thinking of how much he was looking forward to going fishing next week with his best friend Steve. The start of trout season in Pennsylvania is Ted's favorite time of year.

He took the escalator down to the lower level to the food court. It was late afternoon and the mall was fairly crowded. All you hear about malls, he thought, was how they were dying out. But this mall, for now at least, was doing pretty well.

As he stepped of the escalator he felt a slight twinge of pain in his right knee. The injury from his second day of basic training (some luck!) still reared up sometimes if he moved in just a certain way.

He took his place in line behind a fat, dark-skinned girl. She looked Hispanic maybe. She had a pink smartphone glued to her right ear but was not saying anything. She looked like she was starting to sweat, her rolls of fat sticking out around her arms from her undersized tank top glistening in the late afternoon sun filtering down through the skylights.

There was just one other person in front of the fat girl, a woman, but this one much older with brown hair streaked with gray. She wore fairly tight jeans, a PSU sweater, and a comfortable looking pair of loafers that looked to be made of leather. Ted guessed she was about 50. Very attractive all things considered.
Ted started to think about whether she would think he was attractive too. The truth is that even happily married men, no matter their age and what they might admit to, like to think other women find them attractive. Or at least not repulsive. Like he found the fat, greasy looking pig standing in front of him.
Just as Ted was starting to consider what his growing, middle-aged gut might look like if he kept eating at places like Taco Bell - Holy God he hoped he never gets as fat as the girl in front of him - he was startled by a really odd sound.

It was one of those sounds that you instantly recognize, but because it seems so out of place, you have a few seconds of confusion. In this case the sound was someone, clearly a male speaking Arabic, screaming 'Allahu Akbar' or 'God is the Greatest.' Why the was he hearing this in the mall? Surely it wasn't...

Ted turned to his left, to where he heard the yelling. Down that way, all the way down at the end of that wing of the mall, there was the Sears store he had visited earlier. Right where the food court ended and the wing started was one of the few remaining Radio Shacks for many miles around. And just as Ted was able to focus his gaze on the tall, dark-haired man, dressed in black, standing in front of the store, a muzzle flash erupted, catching his attention. A security guard, who was standing there with his arms in the air next to the man in black, suddenly crumpled to the ground. Ted had seen that before. In Iraq he severed some fuck's spine with a well placed shot (OK, it was pretty lucky) and he had seen that same limp, almost puppet-like collapse.

Ted had often wondered how he would react in a situation like this. Of course it was only mental exercise, he told himself, because he always figured he would be more likely to win the lottery than be in a situation where a terrorist was posing any real danger to his life here at home. But here he was. It still did not seem real but that guard had clearly been shot.

The gunman started to fire at those closest to him, a young mother and her small child becoming the next victims. Instinct took over. As he started to run towards the gunman Ted smoothly, in a fluid motion that looked practiced, removed his .45 Colt derringer that he had holstered near the small of his back.
As people started screaming and running in every direction, the gunman keep firing. Ted dove behind one of the nearby massive pillars that circle the food court, not 30 yards from the shooter. He thought the pillars were probably ornamental, not structural. Why that would be running through his head at this moment he did not know.

He glanced back to where he had come from. The way was clear. Good. Most of the people were running that way, away from the gunman. He knew though that he would not. Not Thomas Dunncan Brooks.

The one thing that stuck out to him was that, among all the screaming and sounds of gunfire, that fat pig in the Taco Bell line was just standing there, frozen. Then she suddenly dropped her pink phone and was just starting to turn and run when a bullet hit her in the side of the face. Her head made a wet gushing sound as a wave of blood and tissue sprayed the tall plant container near her. It held a tree of some sort, kind of tropical looking. When she hit the ground her head cracked sharply on the floor. Bone on marble.

He peaked around the pillar, waiting. He knew what he had to do. When that piece of shit started to reload his rifle Ted started to run straight at him. The gunman looked up as he fumbled with a backpack full of clips and the sight of a patriot running straight towards him clearly caused an alarmed look on his face. He had not expected this.

Ted did not slow down. As he ran up to the gunman, no more than 20 years old or so Ted could see now, he pulled the hammer back on his Bond Arms mini .45. Extending his arm out in front of him he aimed for Muhammad's face. Steady and sure. Make it count, he thought.

The rifle clip was in place. A round was loaded into the chamber. Muhammad looked at Ted with a sick smile. He thought he was going to be faster. But he wasn't. Just as the rifle was almost fully raised up - a fraction of a second before it would be pointed right at his face - Ted squeezed off round one of two. The critical defense round hit Muhammad in the teeth. The back of his head was blown off and hit the large glass window of Radio Shack, sending a crimson curtain flowing. Small pieces of bone and brain sticking out of it randomly. It looked like a bloody version of the fake rubber vomit toy he remembered seeing as a kid. But this was no gag.
The adrenaline rush was intense. Ted pulled the hammer back again, without thinking, loading another fat, shiny piece of American FUCK YOU for the other monster he assumed was around.

Trembling, in a primal, hyper-alert state, the sounds around him started to come back into focus. Mrs. PSU ran up and said "God bless you!" hugging Ted, ignoring his gun.


As Ted was leaving the Pennsylvania State Police headquarters, the sky long dark and the chilly night settling in, his wife silently walked along him holding his left hand. His beloved daughter Emma, 3, holding his right, was blissfully ignorant of the night's events and was trying to tell him about a hawk she spotted near our home earlier in the day. Ted let the moment wash over him.

It would take time for Ted to fully process and deal with what he experienced that day. It would not be the first time. But he would sleep well tonight. He will dream of the trout he will catch next week, while standing in the cold, clear water, breathing the damp morning air. God's Country. America.


« Last Edit: June 17, 2016, 07:00:12 AM by CitizenWriter »

Offline Solar

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Re: Patriot Fiction (my first attempt)
« Reply #1 on: June 17, 2016, 07:45:17 AM »
When I get time, like most here, I'll read it, so don't expect immediate responses, they'll roll in slowly.


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