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His mother regretted him, never wanted him, even tried to terminate him, but, at his most sought-after, he was both the second and the eighth most wanted men in the jurisdiction where he practiced his trade. He will stand trial as just one activist, all his aliases merged, but, until his arrest, he performed as several. Two women died in the recent daytime blast he executed, both of them pregnant with babies who doctors tried in vain to deliver (a detail he calls ironic justice) but whose bodies he refuses to tally as hits. A nurse, surprised by shrapnel during her coffee break, lost one eye and the use of her right arm. Do I look scared to you? she will ask him from the witness stand, left hand raised. His ascent through the ranks of the wanted was ingenious. When he was only tenth most wanted, he earned a number eight spot for an alias by planting stolen ID at the scene of a clinic bombing. Since then, he’s conducted workbench surgeries on his cheekbones and jaw, unremarkable features even before he went into the abortion dissuasion business, now half swollen half erased to further frustrate mug book matching, like challenging parents to select their fetus’s image from a random batch of sonograms. Meanwhile, he’s promoted alternate identities in other towns, with unrecognizable faces and aspects, while agents in pursuit go chasing mustaches he’s since shaved or eyeglasses he stole only to be seen in them once. When he is ultimately apprehended, poking around the remnants of an explosion, then interrogated, identified, identified repeatedly, repeatedly convicted, and slapped around with the name his mother gave him, the law will conspire to keep him alive for life, for all of his sacred lives in fact, to be served concurrently.
Original Copyright © January 24, 2007
Revised Copyright © January 30, 2026
First of all, I’m not saying whether I saw anything or not unless I already know you, be that as it may, but on top of that, why you’re asking me is what I want to know, with those fake-looking credentials. Let the evidence speak for itself is all I’m saying. They tore that place apart for two days. There’s probably DNA and forensics all over that place, instead of sending you out looking for witnesses. Otherwise, they can frame some other poor sucker from some other poor neighborhood. You know I’m right about that. Nothing more frustrating than watching justice come down on some harmless punk because he doesn’t have a job. Guilty isn’t the question! What makes them think he’s guilty is the question. Shut up, man, you know what’s good for you. I didn’t say I know any harmless punk. Let me ask you this, since you know so much. You feel confident about making it home safe, black Honda Prelude, AKE-383? That’s like a song. No way I could ever forget that. Maybe we should talk about that. You haven’t tried to live here. You can’t just look at this from one side or the other. This whole thing is a system. When do you hear about cops arresting cops? Are they innocent? You have no idea what goes on with the people you’re asking us to talk about. Crooked judges—do they get turned in by other judges? No, but everybody expects us to turn ours in. People get themselves killed around here. You understand? The only reason I’m here is I don’t get myself killed. You want to investigate something, you should investigate who stays alive. That’s somebody who can teach you something. Stop wasting time on the ones that get themselves killed.
Copyright © May 4, 2007
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Very Short Novels 
Thank you so much, anhinga, but I wouldn't want to try it without the other 199. —David
Why, thank you, brother. It's wonderful to see you here. :) —David
All you need is 100 words to make an emotional impact. Touching.
Brilliant, brother. Just simply brilliant.
This Very Short Novel has a strong resemblance to Simple Lessons of War from almost 20 years ago, but is…