in my mind

In front of my PC, I stood up amidst the noise in my office, and like Christian Bale in Equilibrium, wrist-flicked guns into both hands, and fired adeptly--my aim and footwork masterly synchronized; my assessment of each co worker's location led by memory and peripheral vision: to my right tumbles the old admin officer; to my left the managing editor twists, falls from her chair. I step back, face left, arms spread-eagled but aimed. I squeeze both triggers at once: headshot to the assistant admin girl; the photographer chokes on his own blood. Two quick steps forward, right hand aims left, left aims right: the research writer gets it through his spine; lethal chest wounds for the webmaster. Pivot 160 degrees, lunge, skid, thumb both guns to automatic fire, spray the entrance door till both clips run empty. I flick both wrists: used up cartridges clang on the floor. Both guns re-thumbed back to semi-auto. The entrance door creaks slightly ajar; through the opening falls the nonliving office driver, and the utility man.

My gut twitches: someone is watching. Wrists flick on their own: fresh clips snap into place. Through the open blinds, the food vendor stares into dead-slit eyes: mine. He bolts for it; I run the length of my tunnel-shaped office, cocking both guns, firing at the window, at the running figure. His body thuds on the gravel outside. Pivot, quick eye sweep, instantaneous threat-assessment. The youngest office journalist screams, for the last time, into the dead telephone: my left gun blowing the unit away, my right triggering at her. Twist, adjust aim, fire, lean back, make sure, fire again, kick a chair out of the way, right hand firing straight in front, left hand into the back.

Then, I stood still, listening for movement; stance firm, feet spread apart, ready for anything.

The layout artist bleeds, unmoving, facedown on his scanner. The copy editor, headset on and pen in hand, has corrected her final manuscript, blood-smeared as it is. Sprawled on newspapers, both student assistants, usually early for their classes, won't make it this time. Or ever.

Behind me, the air-conditioner hums--suddenly the only sound in this tunnel of corpses. Soon, a mental tightness in me loosens up. Relieved, I retract both guns back into their wrist-sheaths. I walk back to my PC.

In this dead quiet, I can listen to myself think. I can finally write something decent.

you bad girl you

At McDonald's, I leaned closer to Anne to scold her. She had just returned from having our cups refilled with coffee.

"See that?" I pointed to a sign on the wall above her head. It said: Do not leave your valuables unattended.

"Don't you ever leave me again," I said in mock seriousness, waving my finger at her in the way you reprimand a child.

She laughed like a teenager, reached across the table and tweaked my nose hard.

(Ouch.) ",