Microfiction: Weapon-Grade Buttons

A family of four did not survive for even four seconds. The first rev of the machine gun spewed death so fast they were not even aware that their flesh had jolted to pieces.

Innocent? Is anyone innocent?

Ken pressed the button on his console. He flicked a switch; he spun a few dials. He pressed another button.

A writer, cooped up in his apartment, fearing his incoming deadline, did not even have time to look up as the explosion wiped out his entire apartment floor in an instant. The falling bricks and concrete dropped onto a family of six all enjoying an early dinner in the café below.

What’s a blip? What’s another statistic?

Ken itched his nose, briefly distracted, before he reached out and tapped the screen. He flipped a switch. Pressed a button.

A man skating on the boardwalk did not have time to finish his leg raise before his head popped like a broken fruit and his daughter skidded to a stop. She did not know what to say or do—and debated if it was a prank.

Just how far away do we have to be, to not feel?

Ken took a sip of his coffee, then tilted back his mug all the way. The whiskey went well with the caffeinated beverage. He’d gotten a taste for numbing, these last few weeks. He typed in a long command, set up the automatic routine, and stood up from his console. Rubbing exhaustion from his eyes, he left the room. He’d used up his time for the day—though he did not know what else he was going to do for the remainder of his time.

Not rest, certainly. Ken did not sleep much. Not anymore. The idea of nightmares often too terrifying to face. Better to try for dreamless oblivion—under a wall of medications.

Is it even warfare anymore?

Special thanks to: Bob GerkinCollin PearmanDylan AlexanderJerry Banfield, and Michael The Comic Nerd. 

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