carnage

by Christie Chapman

They were all at the fireworks show when we raided the community garden.

It was my idea. I walked by it all the time. I saw people tending their tiny plots every day, weeding in the summer heat, patiently holding the garden hose over the delicate vegetables and fruits, monitoring their slow growth, and I’d thought: I want to rip it all up.

We heard the booms and saw distant sparks.

First we picked things to eat, as if it were our garden. Tomatoes we sank our teeth into like dull apples, our mouths spilling seedy pulp. Strawberries like free candy.

Then we picked things to throw – watermelons, cantaloupes. Bright fleshy carnage splattered the sides of nearby trees.

Last we picked things just to pick them. Sometimes we let them fall next to where their roots had been, as if to flaunt the unnecessity.

In the morning our neighbors would see what had happened. They would think: Who could do such a thing? Who could have such a dark heart? They will lose their faith in civilization, in concepts like altruism and justice, the honor system. They need this lesson. But that’s not why we did it.

The heart is not a garden. It will not be tended.

The booms got quiet and the colored lights stopped, and from far away we heard applause.

Photo of Christie Chapman

BIO: Christie Chapman's work has been published by The Lascaux Review/The Lascaux Prize anthology, Ghost Parachute, ARTWIFE, The Argyle, The Good Men Project, and Washington Writers' Publishing House, and nominated for Best Microfiction. She is very friendly on Instagram (@christielauryn).