Just and Unjust [Writer’s Island]

Just and Unjust

By Weasel

They forced him out of his home, dragged him through the streets, and then beat him while his wife and child watched from the window. A new revolutionary group, trying to take on crime and the government, it was almost laughable. The group had guns, automatic rifles, pistols, it doesn’t matter. All anyone needs to know is that they were guns. They’re all the same. They make loud noises, force out bullets, and ones behind the weapon murder (almost always for some “righteous” cause). Blood splattered from his face as they delivered fierce blows from their weapons.

“Stop!” a group member spoke. He walked out into the middle of the crowd (they all wore ski masks, covering their faces), then exposed his face into the harsh cold of the night. He kneeled down, lifted the victim’s head, then spoke, “There is no freedom for the unjust. You knew this hour of your life would come, and now it is here. I must ask, are you afraid of your destiny? This is fate, nothing more.” There was no answer from him. His family still watched from the window, screaming, crying, begging for the madness to cease, but their cries were never heard. The group stood the victim up and forced his hands above his head as if he was in a moment of prayer praising his god. The speaker of the group held his gun at the back of the victim’s neck, “Not even God can save you from all your sins. Think about all the families you have ruined, the lives lost to this regime of government. Freedom…that is what you’re taking away from this country. Freedom.”

The victim took one large breath. He knew his life was going to end, so he took all his energy, and began to speak. “There is no freedom. There is no free spirit of this world. No matter what is said from either the government or revolutionary groups, there is no freedom! There is survival. Is that wrong? To survive? You can kill me, my daughter and wife, but it only shows that you, like your enemies, are murderers; fighting for survival. When you kill me you don’t stop anything, you don’t even make a dent in the system. You just kill. I pray to no god, and I ask for no forgiveness for I have done nothing wrong. There is no just, and there is no unjust. There never was.” His speech was over, and he no longer cried or begged for his life. He knew his family would survive this catastrophe, tragic as it may be; they had something no one else really has. They had strength.

In the window, the mother and child are still watching the horror below. The mother beat the window, begging for this to be over. She kicked the walls, screamed, and pleaded to the silent air which consumes their home. Below that window, a board shook loose from her nonstop attacks. Two hand grenades fell to the floor, the victim’s daughter bent down and picked them up, “Mommy, what are these?” The mother looked down for a moment, her eyes burned from all the tears, and she saw the weapons in her daughter’s hands. She grabbed, telling her daughter never to touch them. The mother ran up the stairs of the house, telling the child to stay in the closet, and then went to the master bedroom, the only other window facing the vicious crime. Before she opened the window and threw the grenades, she saw a bottle of vodka, stuffed a rag in the top then grabbed a lighter from her husbands drawer next to his packet of cigarettes. She opened the window, pulled the tabs on each grenade and threw them towards the group. They each landed in the group circle. They stood there dumbfounded by what was thrown. The dark had masked the dangerous explosives and they shrugged it off as a couple of rocks. The mother then lit the rag on fire and threw the bottle out onto the front lawn, not caring where it landed. Fire would spread, she knew that. The grenades went off one after the other sending most of the group back into the fire from the Molotov cocktail. The husband took his chance and ran for his home. He burst through the door, told his daughter to hide, and then grabbed the closest loaded gun. He ran back outside, and began firing. The group was still trying to recover from the blast as they stood back, but immediately fell back to the ground as the bullets hit them. He let the members who were blown into the fire burn, not caring about whether they live or died. They could never hurt him or his family. The shooting stopped. The lawn was filled with bodies charred and mutilated to all extent. Some were still alive but slowly died from the flames or bleeding to death. He walked to the street and saw the speaker, the leader, frantically running in circles, consumed by the fire. His screams went on for what seemed like hours, but were only minutes, and then silence fueled the flames as he watched them spread.


Writer’s Island: Unleashed.


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9 Responses to Just and Unjust [Writer’s Island]

  1. vivinfrance says:

    Your story blows up any notion we might have of decency, justice, forgiveness, peace. And you are right to do so. But there must remain that indomitable element called hope.

  2. anthonynorth says:

    A powerful, bleak story, excellently portrayed.

  3. Diane Truswell says:

    I agree, there’s always hope, Weasel. Your flash fiction scared me, LOL!

  4. Mary says:

    A truly chilling story, Weasel!

  5. 1sojournal says:

    Chilling it is, but owning its own sense of reality as well. Your ending finds a bit of hope, but at what cost? And what are we actually hoping for? Thought provoking Weasel, what you have unleashed,


  6. Jingle says:

    I would be so scared to be in the place…

    daring and lovely writing.
    thanks for the push which leads to more careful actions before we act in life.

  7. shanegenziuk says:

    Thrilling, scary, well written. Thank you :)

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