Her mascara enhanced eyelashes dispensed streams of tears,
Which made tributaries which in turn formed delta
as the salty water meandered southwards.
The light showers from her eyes continued
as she rocked ununiformly back and forth
like the Kennedy Rocker rocking chair.
She continued whimpering noiselessly,
trying hard to keep her head up which has become like living in Jupiter.
Which in itself was 5 billion lightyears far from possible as
Stopping herself from thinking about what had happened.
As she unknowingly relaxed her wrist which has been a good wedge,
Her son's head changed direction perpendicular to the former – facing her.
His mouth agape rather uncontrollably like a valve,
Letting out semi-solid mixture of blood and saliva
That made its way to his mom's blood-soaked trouser.
In a New York minute, she looked at what she has been trying to look away from.
The salty water rained heavily as she blubbered as loud as she possibly can.
Gun bullets flew in random interval, towards random direction.
Bringing down whosoever it came in contact with.
Leaving splashes of blood on the nearest person,
Or on a nearby wall or on the vibrating ground.
People screamed, scrammed, ran hither and thither.
Some of them knocked down or hit by fleeing cars and trucks;
Making way for the perpetrator and his minions – bullets.
Who earlier had stockpiled an arsenal of weapons,
associated equipment and ammunition that included
fourteen AR-15 rifles; all of which were equipped with bump stocks
and twelve of which had 100-round magazines,
eight A-10 rifles, a bolt action rifle, and a revolver.
Lock and load, he shot in rapid succession,
Reload, one gun a time.
He ran out of bullet at the 23rd minute after the start of his operation.
Then hopped on a roofless car, drove aimlessly carelessly,
smashing every survival on his path.
He rode into the young lady who was rocking her bloodied lifeless son,
His lowrider's bumper chopped her head off
And the rest of its bodyweight crunched her and her son to the ground.
YOU ARE READING
Fiction
PoetryThe following stories are fiction only because they are fiction. Perhaps they are not fiction because they mirror the realities of our world today.
