Tag Archives: bomb

2409.  Chemistry opportunities

Angelina was a solo mother. From the day Sylvain was born Angelina prayed that he would excel at his studies. She herself had not been given much of an academic opportunity, and it was important to her that Sylvain should do as best as he could.

When early on at school he showed promise at Chemistry, Angelina bought him a little Chemistry set, and some books on Chemistry. She prayed every day even harder; Lord, may Sylvain become a clever scientist.

Her prayers came true. When he grew up, Sylvain used his extensive knowledge and skills to blow up Parliament.

2294. The taxi ride

The cab driver turned right instead of left. I knew the area quite well and had presumed he would have turned left. So I learned over from the back seat and said, “I thought you would have gone down McKenzie Avenue.”

“Are you telling me,” he was clearly annoyed, “are you telling me that I don’t know my way around here? I’ve driven a taxi in this town for over ten years so don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m doing. I take it you’re not from this town.”

“No, I’m not from here,” I said. “But I know the area quite well.”

“Garbage,” he said. “You’re talking garbage.”

I could tell he was driving more carelessly. He’d speeded up and I thought he was taking the corners a little too fast. By now we were miles from where I wanted to go and he was still rabbiting on about my ignorance.

“Some people think they know everything.”

The next thing he had swiped the side of a parked car, but he kept on driving.

“Aha!” I exclaimed. “Here’s where I live!” It was a stupid thing to say because I’d already told him I didn’t live in this town, but he slammed on the brakes and said “Get out! That’ll be forty dollars.”

So I gave him forty dollars and he took off. About 30 seconds later there was a huge BOOM! and a plume of black smoke shot up behind some houses.

This incident has put a wet blanket on what I was going to do. Getting paid for murdering my ex will have to await another day. And besides, I left the bomb in the taxi.

1552. Everyone pardons the rain

(The closing sentence for this story was suggested by Uma of One grain amongst the storm. If you want to join in the fun of suggesting a future closing sentence for these stories, click here for a peek as to what’s what.)

Everyone pardons the rain. If it rains on a picnic it’s cooling down the oppressive heat. If it rains on the street it’s washing away the stifling dust. If it rains on a normal day it’s watering the garden. If it rains at a funeral it is tears of sorrow. If it rains on a wedding procession ah! it is a sign of wonderful fertility.

Bernice had no such worries for her wedding. It was planned for the dry season when each day for weeks on end would dawn warm and dry. The bridal party and guests would process brightly from the church to the place where the reception was to be held. It would be on foot, except for a cousin in a wheel chair; she would be pushed! The whole world could take part in the procession if they wished.

And indeed! The day dawned bright and cheerful. The wedding service in the church was so beautiful that even grandpa had to borrow grandma’s lace handkerchief to dab his eyes. And then the groom announced: “We invite everyone to join our procession from here to the place of reception!”

They set out. Drums and fifes led the way. It was the happiest of all happy processions! That was when the bomb went off.

Somewhere up there, the clouds murmured and groaned as fat drops of rain fell on the lifeless forms on the street.

1544. Keeping a diary

Since he was eight, David had kept a diary. Every day, throughout the school year, he would write “Fine day. Full day’s classes”. Unless, of course, it was raining. Then he would write, “Raining. Full day’s classes.”

Only occasionally, if something really exciting or different happened, would he deviate from the norm. “Fine day. Full day’s classes. My birthday. Got a Swiss army knife.”

Now that he was all grown up, the words had changed but the pattern stayed the same. “Fine day. Full day’s work.” He grew bored with it. He started adding fiction. “Fine day. Full day’s work. Murdered a prostitute on Crown Street.” “Fine day. Full day’s work. Murdered a woman waiting at the corner of Adelaide Street and Beaconsfield Road.”

It was silly, but no one read his diaries of course, so it didn’t matter. His entries become more creative: “Fine day. Full day’s work. Set fire to the shoe factory on Herbert Street. Four people dead.” “Raining. Full day’s work. Left a bomb under the seat of a bus. Eleven dead.”

When a homemade bomb exploded in the back shed and David was killed, his mother found the diaries in his bedroom. She threw them into the incinerator at her work. She never told a soul.