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Monday, July 6, 2015

On the 4th of July

Flash Fiction. Horror.

I'm not kidding. Gore. Children. 
I love you, and respect your right to a warning. 
Thankfully, like a gunshot to the gut, it's over fast.

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When I was born, my mother saw me and fell in love—but she got a third of my siblings doctored.

You know. Doctored. The replacement for the back alleys, where she dissolved my sister in acid and tore my eldest brother limb from limb. It squelched when his arm came out. Tendons dangled like spaghetti. He screamed.

She suffocated two, poisoned two, and sucked the flesh off another with a special vacuum my father designed.

All my life my mother slaved to give me the best. Best schools, best food, all the toys. She taught me to work hard for them--“but I am the land of opportunity,” she said. She loved all my friends, regardless of race or politics, approved of all my dreams, and stood up for both against my dad. She even let me argue with her. “You have the right to think as you wish.”

But every time I failed, she reminded me of how much she'd given me, and how hard she'd slaved. Then I only remembered the flesh ripped from my brother's bones, the acid sizzling on my sister's skin. If they weren't good enough for her, what was I?

My country is my mother, and I was planned.

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