by Willis Hulings

When the bomb goes off, there will be a couple of things that are probably guaran-fuckin-teed to happen. Things like ears and noses and arms and fingers and hair and stomach and toes and muscle and intestines and eyes and bone and blood will permanently affix themselves to everything in a radius of right about... fifty feet from the center of the blast. Noises are going to emanate from that circle like shouted-loud echoes across the Great Smoky Mountains; man screams, woman screams, child screams, animals screams and shouts no creature can hear, nor make, in any other situation. Those who lose their arms will try to stand and run, only to wobble for a bit until they fall straight back down onto what was their neighbor, while those without legs will feebly crawl back to their foxholes. A veritable shit-ton, pardon my french, of things can and will happen. But I'll say with dadgum certainty, that the man at the center of that blast, the one who it was intended for... well... he'll just be another shredded earlobe on the floor, and I'll have done my job.


Willis Hulings is a student and writer living in Nashville, Tennesee.