Storm The Beachhead, Little Bitch

A Short Story

Synopsis: In a pro-war dystopia, New York City’s top propaganda copywriter, Danny Bergeron, faces a crisis of conscience—and a suspension from his job—just as his life descends into surreal chaos. Amid a backdrop of endless war, Danny crosses paths with Sarah, his girlfriend, who seduces him by whispering gung-ho militaristic imperatives in the guise of sweet talk, Spanish Jackie, a streetwalker catering to the perma-war elite, and the War Witch, a homeless woman who claims the Statue of Liberty channels her late son, an army general. As the city teeters toward Armageddon, Danny navigates absurd twists that blur the line between reality, madness, and the ultimate joke: himself.

“Storm The Beachhead, Little Bitch”

I sat at the kitchen table, glaring at my reflection in the toaster. Once efficient, it had become excruciatingly slow, though I couldn’t pinpoint when the decline had begun. Meanwhile, my ancient portable TV rattled off the grim choreography of war—missile strikes, rising death tolls, grim-faced leaders pitching peace with the enthusiasm of late-night infomercial hosts hawking patio furniture.

I sipped my orange juice, fixating on the toaster’s quiet arrogance. The real problem wasn’t the appliance—it was me, sitting there every morning, watching it mock my inertia, refusing to act.

It wasn’t just a toaster failing to brown bread; it was part of the conspiracy. My toaster was complicit, not in botching breakfast but in the war itself. The world spiraled toward oblivion, and here I was, powerless against the tyranny of unbrowned toast. Surely, this had to mean something more. It had to.

I reached for the silver pendant I wore around my neck. Something I did every time I got a little jittery, but it wasn’t there. The pendant was my anchor in times of trouble. I had a history of misplacing it and often looked for it, even when it was still hanging around my neck.

It was a gift from Emily, my sister, who always seemed to believe I could hold steady when everything else tilted. It was a silvery tablet with a Buddhist inscription I had never bothered to have translated. I’d worn it so long that reaching for it had become a reflex. Whenever my pulse quickened, I felt the need to clutch it. But this time, my fingertips grazed only the rumpled cotton of my shirt.

I pressed my palm flat against my chest, patted once, then again, and plunged my hands into my pockets as if the pendant might magically appear. Twice. A third time. Still nothing. Misplacing it felt like misplacing part of myself. And yet, here I was, fumbling around like a fool, searching for something precious while the rest of the world unraveled.

I tried to recall the previous night. Did I take it off? Probably. I trudged back to my bedroom. The nightstand was predictably barren, save for a stack of books about foreign entanglements I pretended I’d read someday.

Annoyance began to bubble into something more unsettling. That pendant was one of my few keepsakes of Emily’s—from before the war became the background music of our lives. Losing it now felt ominous, like a sign that the distant battles would soon march to my doorstep.

My phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with Sarah's name. Fantastic. A ray of sunshine to pierce through my cloud of cynicism.

"Morning, Danny! Just checking in. You okay?" Her voice was so cheerful I half-expected birds to start fluttering around me.

"Can't find Emily's pendant."

“Again? Have you checked the usual spots?"

“Yeah, I’m hoping it didn’t magically leap into the void like last time."

“You found it on the subway, remember?”

“Without knowing how it got there! Like it had a mind of its own!”

She paused, likely biting back a retort. "Want me to come over and help you look?"

I considered declining, but then I'd have to wallow in my own company.

“Be there in twenty," she said.

While waiting for Sarah, I turned to the news like an addict in need of a fix. Footage of bombed-out cities flashed across the screen. Analysts debated strategies, but no one knew who was fighting whom anymore. It was all blurred lines and gray areas—much like my understanding of where Emily had gone.

Then I remembered holding the pendant as I watched the news last night. I remembered the anchor had mentioned a new offensive, and I recalled the last time Emily and I spoke before she left to "find herself" in some far-flung corner of the world. I feared the war took her somehow. The war had a knack for swallowing people whole.

To make matters worse, I wasn’t working at the moment. I was put on administrative leave as a propaganda copy editor for New York City’s Public Relations War Bureau—yes, that’s a real thing.

My job was to polish government messaging so the public would feel like everything was perfectly fine while the world politely burned in the background. Things fell apart when I pitched a campaign titled “War, What It’s Good For.”

Mr. Eldridge, my boss and the Bureau’s self-appointed gatekeeper of wartime patriotism, took one look at my new slogan and nearly choked on his decaf. “Are you trying to start a riot, Bergeron?” he barked. “I know an anti-war Motown song when I see it.”

Eldridge’s face turned lobster-red. “I think I’ve had just about enough of you trying to slip subversive messages to your anti-war cronies lurking in the shadows out there!”

I raised my hands in mock surrender. “It’s different! Look—‘War: What’s It Good For?’ emphasizes what it’s good for. That’s not the same as ‘What IS it good for?’ Completely different tone. Ours is… enthusiastic.”

He squinted at me. “Danny, I’ve been very inclusive of your opinions around here. You’re my one anti-war guy. My diversity hire for dissenters. But this?” He waved the draft in the air like it had been plucked from the depths of treason. “This is an egregious breach of our code of ethics!”

I tried to keep my cool. “Mr. Eldridge, my feelings about the war are… evolving.”

“Evolving?” Eldridge slammed the paper on his desk. “Enough. I’m putting you on administrative leave. Effective immediately.”

I wanted to argue, but what was the point? The gig was up. My subversive streak had finally been exposed, and Eldridge wouldn’t let it slide. So he sent me packing on paid leave, leaving me with nothing to do but marinate on my sofa to watch endless loops of why the war wasn’t just necessary but downright noble.

A knock on the door jolted me back to reality. Sarah breezed in, a gust of optimism trailing behind her. "Let's find that pendant," she declared.

Sarah and I were an item, but we delayed anything serious until I could shake the nagging suspicion that she wasn’t secretly pro-war. We tiptoed around the topic entirely; she’d whisper sweet nothings about “dropping the big one,” and I’d lie awake questioning her motives. Therapy didn’t help—I was convinced my therapist was a closet warmonger. He peppered his advice with phrases like “bite the bullet,” “friendly fire,” and “drawdown” to describe relationship spats. The final straw came when he suggested I “restock my arsenal” of coping skills. I walked out and never looked back.

Sometimes, I missed the days when people stuck to garden-variety bigotry—it was more straightforward, and at least you knew where they stood.

Despite my trepidations, I decided, at that point, to give it another go with Sarah. Something I was soon to regret. One night, while Sarah and I were fooling around, I noticed her wearing a pair of panties with a military fatigue design. You know, camos! The sight of them aroused me for some odd reason I couldn’t explain, so I threw her out of my apartment without telling her why. Deep down, she knew she had crossed my red line. She texted me an apology: “I won’t wear them again. But you have to admit you liked them, didn’t you?”

What kind of sick mind was I dealing with? I’m not talking about Sarah’s; I’m talking about mine. Yes, I did like them. So, I’m back in therapy again to separate my anger over the war and my irrational sexual desires.

Meanwhile, Sarah and I sifted through the clutter, looking for the pendant, a task that felt increasingly futile. Sarah sank onto the couch after a thorough search that yielded nothing but dust. "It's nowhere, Danny."

“Maybe it’s a sign," I said, flopping into an armchair.

She raised an eyebrow. "A sign of what?"

"That the war's getting worse. That it's creeping closer. Losing the pendant now can't be a coincidence."

She sighed. "Not everything is about the war, baby."

"Easy for you to say. Bergdorf Goodman is outfitting firing squads in couture as a promotion."

“No, they’re not. That’s all in your head. Let’s turn off the news for the night and forget all that and fool around a little bit.”

“Fool around? At a time like this?” I said. “Hey, wait a minute—you aren’t wearing those camo panties, are you?”

“Maybe,” she whispered. “Come and get it, Soldier Boy.”

“I warned you, Sarah! This is not a joke!”

Sarah leered back at me like some hellcat in heat, using her lips as a bugle to blow revelry. “Storm the beachhead, little bitch.”

Fuck, I was getting hard. Sarah knew where my buttons were and how to press every single one of them.

Just then, my phone vibrated on the table: Mr. Eldridge, my boss.

“Bergeron,” Eldridge barked the second I picked up, “I’ve been mulling it over. Against my better judgment, I might consider giving you a second chance. But only if you can give me something good. Fast.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Eldridge! Thank you so much! How much time do I have?”

“Ten seconds. Or your leave is permanent.”

“Ten seconds?! That’s barely—uh, I—wait, I…” I stammered, scrambling for words as Sarah raised an eyebrow at me from the couch, thoroughly entertained.

Eldridge sighed with the weariness of a man who’d heard one too many excuses in his life, “I’m sorry, you’re a good kid, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to—”

“Wait, wait! I’ve got something!” I yelled. “It’s rough, but it’s got potential. Hear me out.”

“I’m listening.”

I took a deep breath. “Storm the Beachhead, Little Bitch!”

There was a pause. A long, terrible pause.

“Storm the Beachhead, Little Bitch?” Eldridge repeated his tone somewhere between confusion and fascination.

“Yes! It speaks to the primal drive of the war effort! Think about it—an amphibious attack, like an erect sea turtle charging heroically onto a hot, oozing beachfront cove, with ocean waves crashing, the tide pulling and pounding, over and over, relentlessly—”

“Pure genius, Danny! I love it!” Eldridge suddenly declared, cutting me off mid-amphibious metaphor. “It’s exactly the kind of raw energy we need to revitalize the campaign! You’re back on board, son! See you O-Nine Hundred Monday morning.”

The call ended with a victorious beep, leaving me clutching my phone like it might bite me. I turned to Sarah, now doubled over with laughter, clutching her stomach.

“I saved your ass,” she declared, her tone somewhere between smug and delighted.

“I think I need some air,” I muttered, heading for the door. I could still hear Sarah cackling behind me as I grabbed my jacket.

“Storm the beachhead, little bitch,” she called after me, relishing in having sunk my battleship. “Don’t forget who the real strategist is!”

Yes, I may have won the battle in saving my job, but I was nothing more than a ‘useful idiot’ living under the jackboot of tyranny.

---

I stepped out into the New York night, my own man again. The city felt restless; its usual din sharpened with an undertone of dread. Sirens droned—not urgent, just insistent, like a headache you can’t shake.

I turned the corner and ran straight into my neighbor, Spanish Jackie, who worked the streets. She was dressed in combat boots, an ammunition-lined corset, and a plastic rocket launcher slung casually over her shoulder.

She wasn’t down with the war, though, not exactly. This was theater. Her uptown permawar clientele preferred their indulgences wrapped in the aesthetics of the empire they served. It was a tough economy, and Jackie played the part because someone had to.

“How ya’ been, Danny? Wanna run your hands over my ammunition?”

“Nah, not tonight, Jackie. Nice touch, though.”

“The hedge fund boys love it.”

“Gotta look the part for the cause.”

“I always do,” Jackie said before turning forlorn. “Look, Danny, if you’re in the mood, I’d love some company tonight. I’m seriously lonely— my man was hanged for treason.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Selling secrets to the enemy?”

“Worse. He was selling the enemy’s secrets to us, trying to stop the war.”

“Wow, that is treason.”

“We can go back to my place if you want.”

“I mean, you’re smoking hot and all that, but I’m a little down myself. I lost that pendant my sister gave me again, the one with the Buddhist inscription. And I’m so attached to it. Another time, maybe.”

“Sorry. You sure you won’t change your mind?”

“Thanks, but I’m trying to make it work with Sarah before I start cheating on her.”

“Remember that night we went dancing at “Gulag”? And how you roughed me up in the isolation cell? You were so authoritarian.”

“Was I? I suppose I can be a little dictatorial if push comes to shove,” I said boyishly. “I remember now. I was worked up over Sarah after she tried to use a mini-hand grenade as a butt plug on me.”

“That’s awful. Why don’t you just dump her?”

“Yeah, I know. I guess I’m ‘evolving.’ I just don’t know what I’m evolving from or into.”

“Yeah, you and everyone else. Well, I hope you find your sister’s pendant— wherever it is.”

“Thanks, Jackie, see ya’ ‘round. Take care.”

---

I walked the city all night like I used to, trying to figure out why I was the way I was and whether I could do anything about it. Surveillance drones buzzed overhead, so I stuck to the shadows. I never served, which meant being extra careful about what I said, who I told it to, and where I went. You never know who’s keeping track of what these days.

Maybe I should have served. Just think of the perks: an eye patch, a missing limb, maybe even one of those shiny prosthetics that make people whisper “hero” when you walk into a room. War vets with missing parts always get the best table in the house. But no, not me—I lacked the grit to lose a limb for my country.

Still, one thing was clear: New York was safer than ever, so long as you ignored the air raid drills and the gentle lullaby of drones patrolling the skies. The Mayor, naturally, was pro-war—because who wasn’t? But he wasn’t pro-war enough for some people. The pundits and the press tore him apart whenever he uttered something vaguely diplomatic. His approval ratings tanked with every hint of humanity. Who knew where he really stood? Probably nowhere. Standing still is dangerous these days.

I reached Battery Park just as dawn broke. Out of nowhere, an elderly woman, walking her ducks and roosters, appeared, dressed in vibrant colors that clashed spectacularly with the somber mood—think rainbow meets camouflage. She pushed a small cart adorned with bells and wind chimes.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

“What’s your game, lady?" I asked.

"I have a bomb, and I'm going to blow all of us up!" she declared with a wide grin.

My heart skipped a beat. "Excuse me?"

She burst into laughter. "Just pulling your leg, dear! In times like these, a good joke is worth its weight in gold."

"Why would you joke about something like that?" I snapped.

She chuckled softly. "You shouldn't take things so seriously. Maybe that's why you keep losing things."

“What?”

“Your sister’s pendant.”

I froze. “What do you know about that? Let me guess: you moonlight as a psychic?"

“Not a psychic, a witch. A War Witch," she said, tapping the side of her nose conspiratorially. “My son served as general in the army, you know," she said, her tone shifting slightly.

“You must be proud,” I said without any meaning.

“I am. He led a tremendous offensive. Brilliant strategist," she mused. “He was killed in a bombing raid.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that," I offered gently.

“I’m not. Because he's not entirely gone,” the War Witch said, tapping her temple. “You see Lady Liberty sitting in the harbor? My son speaks through her now and again."

I raised an eyebrow. "Right," I said, shaking my head. "Well, it's been... enlightening."

The War Witch’s eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that cut through the strange air between us.

“Tell me about her,” she said suddenly.

“About who?” I asked.

“Your sister, Emily.”

I hesitated. Maybe it was her absurdity or the sheer strangeness of the situation, but words started tumbling out. I told her about Emily—how she'd always been the adventurous one, how she'd left home to volunteer abroad, how the war had erupted shortly after, cutting off all communication.

The woman listened, nodding at all the right moments, her gaze never wavering. As I spoke, she reached into her patchwork bag and rummaged around, pulling out objects that ranged from the mundane—a spatula—to the bizarre—a snow globe containing a miniature Ferris wheel. Finally, she extracted a small, familiar object.

"I believe this is yours," she said, placing Emily's pendant into my hand.

I stared at it, then at her. “My God, you found it! How did you—?"

“Find it? Oh, these things come to me.” She smiled, her fingers flicking out exaggeratedly as if presenting a magic trick.

“Seriously, where did you find this?” I demanded, gripping the pendant so hard the chain dug into my palm.

She leaned in, whispering. “Perhaps it found me so I could return it to you. Consider it a sign—not of loss, but of hope.”

“Hope?" I echoed skeptically. “Hope for what?”

The War Witch straightened her myriad of necklaces clinking softly. She eyed me with that same intense look. “Know thyself, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories.”

“What’s that from?” I asked slowly, trying to piece her words together.

She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The Art of War. Surely, you thought it was just some Buddhist wisdom. But no—your sister gave you a warrior’s creed, not a monk’s prayer.”

I blinked, taken aback. “Sun Tzu? Are you sure?” My mind raced. Emily—the free spirit, the idealist—had given me this? “Why would she...?”

The woman chuckled, her eyes glinting mischievously. My mind was a whirl of questions, doubts, suspicions.

I glanced at the pendant in my hand. “Thank you for finding my sister’s pendant.”

With that, the War Witch gave a little bow and strolled away, humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like the national anthem played backward.

“No one is ever going to believe this,” I thought, shaking my head. The pendant sat cool in my hand, its weight now carrying an entirely different meaning. It wasn’t just a remembrance of my sister—it was a riddle she’d given me, a challenge that suggested she understood the rules of this chaotic game far better than I ever had.

And suddenly, I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be reassured by that or terrified.

---

I hurried back to my apartment.

When I opened the door, the silence struck me. Sarah was gone. Part of me wished she hadn’t left, but I was too restless to dwell on it. I made myself a cup of coffee, then sank into a chair at the kitchen table, staring at the pendant.

“How?” I muttered.

I clutched the pendant as if waiting for it or expecting it to explain itself. The absurdity of its return replayed in my mind—the War Witch, her dead son whispering through the Statue of Liberty, her cheerful threat to blow us up. The relief of getting it back had shifted to suspicion. It wasn’t just an object anymore. It felt like a curse—a war spell. Somehow, I’d been drafted.

I called Sarah, desperate for validation.

“Sarah,” I began, “this isn’t just a coincidence. The witch, her son, the pendant, its inscription, Emily —what’s happening?!"

“Have you considered the double meaning: ‘Know thyself, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories’? I interpret it as a self-help mantra of a hyper-paranoid overachiever.”

“Me or Emily? Who’s the hyper-paranoid, and who’s the overachiever?”

“Look, Danny, I think we have to start preparing for The Big Event,” Sarah interrupted casually.

“What Big Event?” I snapped.

“You’ve always said you wanted the war to end. Well, here it is.”

“Wait— I thought the war itself was The Big Event. What’s ‘Bigger’ than a global war?”

“Nuclear annihilation,” she said matter-of-factly, as though she were describing a new vegan dish at her favorite cafe. “The great reset. The Be-All Mother of End-All nuclear toast, baby! We might not survive, but hey—at least the war will end. You can’t have everything, Danny.”

“No, Sarah. No. That’s not an option. There’s no ‘Big Event.’ Just—no!”

She sighed. “You’re so negative. My uncle’s already built a fallout shelter in Vermont. We could just hop in the car and go. Problem solved.”

I stared at the pendant, gripping it so tightly my knuckles turned white. “I am not hiding in your uncle’s doomsday bunker!”

“Honestly, Danny, you’re unraveling. I say drop the fucker! Do it now so future generations can win wars for peace instead of this insane endgame that never ends!”

Before I could argue, she cut in. “Oh, wait. Oh my God.”

“What?” I asked, irritation flaring.

“It’s Emily,” she said. Her tone shifted, sharp and startled. “Your sister! Danny, your sister Emily … she’s on television!”

“Television, where?!”

“Danny, turn on your television now!”

I scrambled for the remote, fumbling with the buttons until the screen flickered on. There she was—Emily—my sister. Except now, she was someone else. Someone transformed.

The chyron beneath her read: Lieutenant Colonel Emily Bergeron Leads Victory Offensive.

Her face was stern, her cropped hair framing eyes blazed with zeal. She stood on a battlefield, surrounded by soldiers chanting her name.

“This war is not a choice,” Emily declared. “It’s the only truth we have left. Without victory, there is no reality. There is no existence. Winning is all that matters.”

The crowd erupted into cheers, fists pumping in the air.

“She’s like... a dictator,” I muttered in disbelief.

“Wow,” Sarah said dryly. “Looks like someone in your family finally made something of themselves.”

I couldn’t answer Sarah; I was transfixed as Emily continued. She turned directly to the camera, her gaze locking with mine through the screen.

“I want to say this to my brother Danny,” she said, trembling. She held up something that made my stomach drop.

It was a tee shirt. On it, in bold block letters, were the words: STORM THE BEACHHEAD, LITTLE BITCH.

Tears streamed down her face as she clutched the shirt to her chest. “Danny, you’ve kept the spirit of the war alive. You’ve fought for the truth, even when it was hard. You’re my inspiration.”

The crowd roared again, but I couldn’t hear it. My ears rang with the sound of my own heartbeat. My campaign slogan—intended as a desperate joke—was now a symbol of Emily’s twisted devotion to the war.

I dropped the phone. Once my lifeline, the pendant felt like a chain binding me to my sister’s derangement. I wanted to throw it across the room, but I couldn’t let go.

“Danny? You’re famous! Storm the beachhead, little bitch,” Sarah’s voice drifted faintly from the phone on the floor.

A loud explosion on the TV pulled my attention back. The camera shook violently as smoke and debris filled the frame. The anchor’s voice cut in, breathless and panicked.

“Reports are coming in that Lieutenant Colonel Emily Bergeron may have been caught in the blast—”

The screen went black.

I stared at the TV, frozen. The pendant burned cold in my hand.

“Danny?” Sarah said again, her tone flat now. “Danny, are you there?”

---

I didn’t know if Emily was alive or dead. I paced the room, the walls closing in, the air feeling heavier with every step. The TV was off, but my sister’s voice still echoed in my mind: Winning is the only reality.

The apartment felt smaller and darker. The pendant in my palm grew impossibly heavy. Emily’s face was a loop in my mind—her pride, tears, and devotion to something that felt more like fevered delusion than reality.

"Am I the joke?” I muttered to the empty room. “Or am I the punchline?”

The silence was unbearable. I ran to the window, threw it open, and stuck my head into the night.

“STORM THE BEACHHEAD, LITTLE BITCHES! IF IT’S WAR YOU WANT, IT’S WAR YOU’RE GOING TO GET!”

A dog barked in response. Someone down the block yelled, “Yeah, motherfucker, let’s kill everyone!”

I yanked myself back inside and slammed the window shut. My heart pounded as I stared at the pendant in my hand. Its surface gleamed faintly, mocking me, daring me.

“I know how to end this,” I muttered, my voice low and venomous.

I turned to the kitchen, my eyes locking on the toaster. That smug little machine, my tormentor. It had defied me for weeks, turning my mornings into miniature battles. And now, in the dark logic of my unraveling mind, it was the perfect vessel for resolution.

The War Witch’s voice returned to me: “Know thyself, know thy enemy.”

The pendant, of course, didn’t answer. But its weight was unbearable. It wasn’t just an object anymore. It was everything—the war, Emily, the world.

“Fine,” I said, my voice trembling but resolute. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I stepped to the toaster, opened its slot, and slid the pendant inside. It nestled there like a tiny warhead, its inscription glinting faintly in the dim kitchen light.

As my hand hovered over the lever, I whispered, “A thousand battles, a thousand victories.” And then I pressed it down.

At first, there was nothing—just the faint hum of electricity, the toaster’s usual, smug indifference. Then, a tiny pop. A spark flew from the slot, then another, as if the entire electrical grid were sniffing the air. The pendant began to glow, its surface fracturing like molten glass.

The lights in my apartment flickered. Smoke poured from the toaster. It wasn’t just a kitchen appliance anymore; it felt alive like the city’s entire electrical network was coursing through it.

Then came the explosion.

A blinding flash erupted from the toaster, a violent surge of light and heat that sent shards of metal and sparks ricocheting off the walls. The kitchen groaned as the force of the blast rippled outward, and I hit the floor, coughing on the fumes.

When I staggered to the window, its scale became clear. The toaster hadn’t just shorted out my kitchen—it had taken the entire city with it.

Streetlights blinked out like dying stars. The towering advertisements in Times Square dissolved into darkness. Manhattan itself seemed to exhale as every circuit, every connection, went dead.

For a moment, there was nothing but stillness. Then came the sirens, wailing in unison like a panicked chorus. Helicopters roared overhead, their searchlights slicing through the darkened skyline. Somewhere in the distance, an explosion bloomed, faint but unmistakable.

I stared at the toaster, now a smoldering, blackened husk, and whispered to no one in particular, “Was it a miniature nuke? Or just the world’s most pissed-off kitchen appliance?”

And then the chaos began.

Somewhere outside, a building erupted in flames. Then another. The fire spread quickly, leaping across blocks like a living thing. People ran through the streets. There was machine gun fire and missiles.

The helicopters grew louder, their shadows passing over my window like vultures circling. Somewhere in the distance, I thought I heard Emily’s voice, faint but insistent: Winning is the only reality.

I laughed.

“Am I the joke?” I shouted, clutching my chest. “Or am I the punchline?”

The walls felt like they were closing in. The air grew hotter and thicker as the city around me burned. And in the center of it all, the toaster—my toaster—sat in silent triumph, having incinerated Sun Tzu and his bullshit!

As the helicopters closed in, their searchlights swept through the destruction. I didn’t know if Emily was alive or dead. I didn’t know if the war was real or just the last cruel joke in a world gone mad.

I huddled against a wall and slid down to the floor, envisioning the War Witch, a deranged jester, her gnarled finger hovering over the glowing red button of the mother of all bombs. She didn’t push it, though. She just licked it, slow and deliberate, like a goddamn ice cream cone, whispering, “Know thyself, know thy enemy,” while the world waited to see what would explode first: the planet or everyone’s shred of sanity.

© Michael Arturo, 2024

Thanks for reading.

Support by hitting the like button or leaving a comment.

Welcome to Michael’s Newsletter. Writer of contemporary political/social commentary, parodies, parables, satire. Michael was born and raised in New York City and has a background in theater and film. His plays have been staged in New York, London, Boston, and Los Angeles.

Michael also writes short literary fiction. Below is a link to his first collection.

FLATIRON and other tall tales

Please consider becoming a donor or gifting a subscription.

“Who Killed Storytelling?” available on Kindle Vella