Free Online Short Stories and Poetry

Now soliciting fiction about military or civilian snipers. Contact me with submissions.

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Are the Humans Warlike?
by Victor Aguilar

Orbiting the oxygen-rich blue-green planet,
We peer through gun sights, trying to read it.
Are the humans warlike?  Be they tigers or sheep,
Either way, the fact is:  Their planet, we need it.

Know your enemy and know yourself – Sun Tzu.
To learn about the humans we’ll capture one,
Test his strength, his courage and his mettle.
Find out what they’re made of; that will be fun!

We hover over the city, looking for one alone,
There’s our prey, walking though a cemetery!
God!  He fights like a demon!  Eight of us fall.
But we tie him up and to our ship we do carry,

The human as he writhes in our grasp.  An ell!
Muscles bulging, he strains against his binds,
Blood pours out as the cords dig into his wrists,
But he pulls even harder.  His teeth he grinds.

We bring him to the CAT scan machine,
An advanced version that can read minds,
It looks for thoughts of surrender, of fear;
But hatred, fury and rage are all that it finds.

Snapping his binds he leaps free of the CAT scan,
Striking in every direction he lays ten of us low,
Our spaceship is splattered with blood and gore!
Stealing a shuttle, he returns to the planet below.

Half of our crew dead, we abandon the planet,
The humans are too fierce!  They can keep it.
Our species has conquered many planets before,
But not this one; to our home world we beat it.

The sun is rising as he races across the cemetery,
He had wanted to stay and kill the rest of the crew,
But, being a vampire, he had to return to his grave,
The aliens didn’t know it, but Earth has its monsters too.

Unlike in the Movies’
by Victor Aguilar

Unlike in the movies, there was no slapping of leather,
Each man was ready to fight and held his gun in his hand,
One came to town from the west and one from the east,
Walking in the street to where they’d make their stand.

Unlike in the movies, there was no ominous dialogue,
No denunciations of “varmint” or talk of high noon,
They opened fire as soon as they came within sight,
Neither had come to talk; they came to kill – and soon.

Unlike in the movies, neither man carried a big revolver,
One man had a .45 Colt 1911, an expensive Army gun,
The other had a .22; a snake-killer and rabbit-getter,
He carried it every day; the 1911 was bought for fun.

Unlike in the movies, the fight was not over with one shot,
.22-guy had one hand in his pocket, the other held out,
He was a marksman; he hit every shot, six of them in all,
.45-guy charged, firing has pistol fast and with a shout.

He missed every shot he fired, then looked to his chest,
Finding six bullet holes, he rolled his eyes and fell flat,
He lay on his back and blinked at the bright sun overhead,
The other man calmly reloaded, then approached like a cat.

And, like the cat, curiosity killed him; inspecting his work,
He stood over the fallen man, who then fired his last round,
People are durable; six .22 bullets will not disable them,
But a .45 slug will; he was dead before he hit the ground.

The people crowding the sidewalks came forward to help,
A little boy among them; about five years old at the time,
They applied bandages and antiseptic to the man’s chest,
He was choking on his blood; “I can’t breathe” he did mime.

It was not the holes in his skin but the bullets in his lungs,
If only they had cleared his airway and laid him on his side,
He might have lived – the little boy knew what to do – but,
He drowned.  Because the child did not speak up, he died.

Fear is a Laxative
by Victor Aguilar

“What is this in regards?” asks the pretty receptionist.
“Your boss owes me money.”  She gives me a wink.
“I’ll see if this is something we need to pay,” he says.
“I’ll see if this building is inflammable,” I think.

For the second – actually third – time I use the john,
Done with that I take up my air gun and shoot bull’s eyes,
“At least my hands are steady,” I think as I sit down again,
But in my intestines, fear resides; to myself I tell no lies.

I’ve thought through every eventuality – more than twice,
I check off my gear:  assault rifle, ski mask, two cans of diesel,
Two timers and two igniters – like NASA, I believe in redundancy.
Back to the bathroom I go, for the sixth time, I think.  Oh well!

Unwilling to silhouette myself climbing over, I dig under the fence,
I pull my rifle and two cans after me.  I’ve crossed the Rubicon!
I climb the wall with my rifle slung over my back.  Don’t look down!
I pull the two cans up.  Then, through the skylight, I lower my bomb.

The security guard cruises slowly past.  Lying flat in the grass,
I hold my rifle’s sights on the corner of his driver’s side window,
Like when I was shooting the air gun, the assault rifle is rock solid.
At least my hands are steady, though to the john I’ll soon have to go.

In and out, unseen, my mission is carried out with military precision,
Not a single unforeseen problem; no shots fired, we all get to live.
Well, there was one very small deviation from the original plan,
On the way home I had to stop and find a bush.  Fear is a laxative.

Repo Man
by Victor Aguilar

They don’t want to pay.  They say, “That’s a civil matter.”
Apparently, this is a euphemism for “you have no rights.”
Sure, it’s a civil matter; until the buckshot does scatter.

Then it is murder one.  You’re going to prison, son!
A family man, a church goer, a member of the PTA!
You blew his brains out!  Just look what you’ve done!

But he was shooting at me!  A whole magazine; he just missed.
If one of those bullets had found its mark and I was on the slab,
Would anybody care?  No, nobody.  And that has me pissed!

I am just doing my job.  I am trying to make an honest living,
Many miles I put on my car; I can barely afford to maintain it.
But I pay my bills; it’s an honest job, though it does involve killing.

Would you rather that I be a bum, a con man and a cheater?
Someone who signs a contract and then doesn’t make payments?
A hard man I may be, but an honest one.  I’m a repo man; a killer.
Ode to a Ka-Bar Knife
by Victor Aguilar

There is only one I can count on in times of strife,
Resting quietly in your sheath, I won’t disturb you,
I’ll let you repose; sleep, until I’m ready to take a life.

Oh my Ka-Bar!  You are the essence of my life force,
Cold and hard and sharp; you have purity of purpose,
To those you encounter; it’s certain death, of course.

“Give me yo money, bitch, o you gonna die!” says the thief.
You strike like a serpent, plunging deep into his heart.
Ejaculation!  My pent-up lust is spent; what a relief!

“But I’m just a mugger, in the parking lots of malls.”
“I know,” I wonder why he tells me what is obvious.
“You didn’t have to kill me!” the dying man bawls.

He falls.  Like a geyser, blood spurts out of his chest,
I watch, fascinated.  Each spurt is weaker and weaker,
Then it’s over.  Oh my Ka-Bar!  You’re the best!

by Victor Aguilar

The sniper waits; he can wait all day,
A loophole he’s found and there he’ll stay.

The bombed-out buildings have many a crack,
But through one, a rifle points, ready to attack.

Who gets to die?  Who will walk into view?
It’s a very narrow strip of land.  Cross it!  Do!

The sniper waits patiently for a target to appear,
It’s random who will die; their paths he cannot steer.

But the city is full of enemy; they’re everywhere!
Chance is on his side.  Somebody will pass by his lair.

An Account of a Gunfight
by Victor Aguilar

Some men went to fight some other men,
I’m not sure why, but shots were exchanged,
“I’m hit!” cried one among the attacking party,
So they carried him away; confusion reigned.

There was panic and the smell of fear in the air,
“I’m bleeding!  Oh, please hurry!” he did beg,
And they did hurry, as fast as they could go,
Each of his comrades holding an arm or a leg.

It was three miles to the nearest house,
Asking for help and telling stories of strife,
They laid him out on the kitchen table,
And then boiled water to sterilize a knife.

“Where is the bullet lodged?” they asked.
“Here,” he sobbed, pointing to his rear,
They took off his pants and held him down,
If their surgery failed, the end was near!

“That’s not blood,” their neighbor observed,
And burst out laughing as it all became clear.

The God of the Pit Fighters
by Victor Aguilar

They call us heathens and savages; a cruel, cruel people,
It’s true, in Sodom, there’s not a single church steeple.

We like to stage pit fights, that’s our only real passion,
Two dogs or two slaves; if they won’t fight, we lash ’em!

Top dollar paid, the call went out far and wide,
Bring us your best; mere men and dogs we deride.

A trader offered us the ultimate pit fighter for sale,
It will fight ten dogs?  We thought it was a tall tale.

A great striped beast was brought to us in heavy chains,
We should have killed it then, if we’d had any brains.

In a twelve-foot-deep pit the terrible beast was placed,
It will fight ten dogs; with whiskey the crowd was braced.

Instead of fighting, it jumped straight up into the crowd,
Excitement turned to terror.  The screams were so loud!

In a blur it went through us like a striped chainsaw,
Cutting in every direction; talk about shock and awe!

One man, Lot, left town; before the beast he cowered,
But his wife went back for her jewels and was devoured.

Now the tiger lives in the woods and stalks us for food,
They say it’s punishment for our sins, for being so lewd.

So we’ve built a church and we pray to the Lord in the sky,
We’ve got to do something – anything – before we all die.

What do you think?  Will the God of Abraham save us,
From the God of the Pit Fighters, who does crave us?

by Victor Aguilar

I approach on my hind legs like a human,
Though I cannot help leaning forward,
Ready to pounce, on the balls of my feet,
The man cries like a baby when he’s gored.

Why don’t they don’t run and save themselves?
Covered with fur; long teeth in a wolf’s snout,
It must be clear that I am the werewolf they fear,
Yet I move through the city, walking freely about.

A werewolf stalks the city, the newspapers report,
Bloody corpses torn apart with teeth and claws,
Many have heard him at night, howling at the moon,
Yet I walk down the street and they do not even pause.

I yank a pedestrian into an alley when no one is looking,
Breaking his neck as I go, I pull him behind a dumpster,
Powerful jaws snap bones; my fur is splattered with blood,
If only he’d seen I was in wolf form, he’d have run for sure.

It is daytime; I’m back to my human form.  I turn on the TV,
One of my kills was captured by a surveillance camera,
It shows a wolf with matted black fur and a pointed snout,
Tearing some poor girl to pieces; her name was Tamera.

Bored, I turn off the set, do my laundry and take a shower,
It’s been a long night without sleep, so I retire to my bed,
That afternoon I’m arrested.  “If you knew you’d been filmed,
Why didn’t you run?”  I see now: the werewolf is in my head.