Furious and Implacable Judgment by Brenton Woodward

You still call on her now, not expecting a reply but, out of a fear that she'll feel abandoned if you don’t. It’s difficult, not hearing from her, nor knowing how she’s doing; nor how it would be if something did happen to her, whether her parents would tell you. Whether anyone would tell you.

You think about how devastating, emotionally apocalyptic, it would be; how it would be the end. And it would be liberating. It would be freedom: free, completely and utterly.

You would be able to walk away: from work, from people, and from life; run with your head down through the streets, and never stop; reshape your reality as you desired, which would mean the excision of many malignant tumors on the flank of the world; yielding yourself up to the flow of cosmic and righteous anger acting as a conduit for the furious and implacable justice that you, only you, are capable of enacting.

It would mean destroying them all, everyone that ever hurt her; putting bullets through their skulls, or knives through their ribs, or beating them with bare fists: because what you want is for her to die so you can avenge her.

Does this cast you from the light of the humane, into the shade of the monstrous?But do other people have things like this, things that fester in dim corners of their minds. But you couldn't ask them to be sure, couldn't compare notes because what if they said “No, I never feel that way, I don’t know what you mean.”

She calls you and talks about her job, about her newborn nephew; the kittens she saved and is raising like they’re her own little babies; and you're welling up as you listen to her describe the kittens’ antics. Because you love listening to whatever she wants to tell you about, you miss talking, but now she gets quiet, she doesn’t want to talk anymore.

Brenton Woodward is a creative writing student from Arizona who has never been taught how to write an author's bio. He enjoys Mexican food, and Adventure Time, among other things. He once fired a shotgun one-handed and still hit the clay pigeon. He hopes that someday he will have more works published than he has belly buttons.