A series of balloons, each with the image of a human face printed upon it, was released from behind the wall. A woman stationed in the yard with an air rifle took shots at them. Her aim was nearly perfect after years of practice. She took down the first balloon (which carried the face of a famous singer), then the next (famous businessman), then the next (famous politician), each time needing only a single shot. The fourth balloon had printed on it a face the woman did not recognize. “Who’s that?” she said, half-turning to the man beside her. The man, her assistant, typed quickly on his computer. “It’s a writer,” he said. “Oh,” the woman said. A look of disappointment spread across her face. She didn’t even bother shooting at it. The fourth balloon rose into the air until it was no larger than a pinpoint and drifted out of sight. The man watched it go. The woman did not. The next day, the headlines read “Sky Writer,” “Writer Triumphs!” and “Brave Writer is Sole Survivor of Balloon Massacre.” The air rifle went back on the rack, plenty of pellets left.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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