Micro fiction


1 minute read

I feel the early afternoon sun on my face as I walk down one of the many crowded streets of Rio. A kid, no older than fourteen, passes the man directly in front of me and snatches his watch. As he runs away, the man takes a gun from his jacket and shoots him in the back.

The blood splatter hits an old lady who drops her groceries. The kid loses his balance and crashes into a group of Japanese tourists before falling face down on the pavement.

People are running and screaming around me but I’m unable to move. I just stand there as the blood starts to flow down the calçada.

At night, as I smoke my cigarette, I see the red streaks of military grade bullets lighting up the hills.

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