Quick post from the mobile. Forgive the lack of initial editing.
There’s almost no reason to describe it. We’ve all seen it in shaky phone video or the view from the belly of a helicopter. With a weapon or sometimes unarmed, disturbed people charge police in what we call “suicide by cop.” Even though we’ve all seen it, it is fairly rare. I don’t have stats but it’s certainly not something most cities experience daily. “Suicide by cop” cannot compete with the bloody realities of traffic stops or domestic disputes. That said, the demographic of such events is all over the map, a little heavy on the 35 to 50 crowd, but still diverse. Donald Trump wants to sow firearms among a group of people who are notorious for their underdeveloped frontal lobes. Teenagers.
Cops tread like ocean water the stress that comes with carrying a deadly weapon. Technology may advance in this field but as of today a weapon still belongs to whomever wields it. Imagine how stressful this fact in an environment where half the people you process will take the opportunity to relieve you of said weapon. Add to this the laughable amount of training in US law enforcement and the stress weighs still more. Yet, stress is a relative experience. I have worked for public schools. I spent 7 years immersed in the types of stress that cling to teaching like barnacles. Even with police training, teaching combined with the responsibility of a carrying a firearm seems too much to ask. Especially of a profession not known for Rambo-esque personalities. Donald Trump wants to mix all of this together in a structure inhabited by hundreds of people for whom the American Academy of Pediatrics just this week suggested sweeping new guidelines on detecting depression.
Donald Trump lives in a fantasy world propped up by assholes like the Republicans and the NRA.
Alot of people are probably going to die.
PS. ...working on another blog over the whole gun debate again... I think it’s a tech issue. I think science can make guns (bullets) useless. Until then...
There’s a place in the cove, a place with a view of the rocks that sit like unused material in the abandoned construction of the coarse cliff side. Sheltered from the sun by the overhung jungle, the crabs stagger this stone field, much of the surface a blanket of surgical edges. Old folks tell of a pirate movie filmed here in the forties. The stones made filming delicate and dangerous for the mermaids. The waves lap here at low tide, keeping time. The planetary chronograph. The sun sets between the towering stones during certain months. As things have gone, I find it impossible not to think of it. I am ruined by it. The red sea, breathing under the lust of the sun’s blinding egg yolk. Dolphin fins cut tracks on the surface. The salt breeze. It is all I see. No matter how much effort I waste to change it.
White gleam oppressed the sky, forcing one eye shut while the other surveyed the rock wall ahead of him. Five hundred feet of scrub and cactus curved the talus to the three hundred feet of jagged wall. He knew the fastest ascent. He knew the location of the hidden crack where very few before him had climbed the natural steps to the top, shortening the trek to town by a day. By now, his pursuers moved at a far greater speed behind him, somewhere in the valley. Probably on the old mining road. One of their three choices. Not the fastest choice but the easiest. Confident they had him out flanked. He imagined the dust they must have kicked up near the flatland breaks by the river. He imagined the children from the state home in awe of their numbers, their uniforms, their weapons. He hadn’t yet calculated his move a full fledged hoodwink but if they were to mistake his absence on the other side of the mountain tomorrow as anything but their own mistake, his strategy will have reaped a reward he had not considered until now.
Chrysalis, a growing collection of very short fiction.
That Night Filled Mountain
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Unless noted, all pics credited to Skitz O'Fuel.