Mother Love

This time last year, I was contacted by American Public Radio's Weekend America to write a thirty-second horror story for their Halloween-weekend show. As anyone who's read my fiction will tell you, I'm not much for short-short stories, but I liked the challenge, and wound up sending them three pieces. I was happy enough with the story they picked, which a guy came over to my house to record me reading and which was subsequently broadcast along with stories by Neil Gaiman and M. Rickert, but this was the one I liked the best.

Mother Love

You have to go for the head. They tell you that in all the literature, the public service announcements, the infomercials. The government video even gives you suggestions for the best spots to aim at: between the eyes, behind the ear. What they don’t tell you about—what none of them tell you about is the voices. You think they’ll be silent, like in the movies we laughed at when we were kids. Or maybe they’ll moan, say, “Braaaaiiiinnnns.” You don’t expect to hear them out there crying. You don’t expect to hear them saying, “Ma?” or, “Mom?” or, “Mommy?” Their voices different, rough, but—you know it’s them. “Mommy,” they say in those voices, “where are you? I can’t see. What happened to me? Are you there? I’m scared. Mommy?” For all the world like they were your babies again, and you steadying your arm, lining up your sights.