This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “hello goodbye goodbye hello” Down in the Dirt (v132) (the October 2015 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Sunlight in the Sanctuary (the 2015 poetry, flash fiction, prose & artwork anthology)		get this poem collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book the Intersection the Down in the Dirt July - Dec. 2015 collection book		get the 318 page July - Dec. 2015 Down in the Dirt issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

A really bad idea

Matthew Hentrich

    “A good idea taken too far can easily become a bad idea. Happens all the time.” Dad said. Then he turned and put six rounds downrange. He ejected the magazine and loaded up a fresh one, then popped off a few more shots.
    “Like what?” I asked. “If an idea is good, doesn’t that mean it will always be good?” I lit the end of the molotov cocktail and heaved it over my head in a backwards arch. I heard the satisfying crunch and woosh a few seconds later, and maybe a scream. But that might have just been my imagination.
    Dad considered my question as he dragged the M249 into position. “Well, take the self esteem revolution of the 1970’s. The idea made sense - be careful not to damage a child’s self esteem because kids with low self esteem have a higher likelihood of using drugs, engaging in violence, and experiencing teen pregnancy than children with high self esteems. But, taken too far, and the consideration for maintaining self esteem prohibits constructive criticism, and creates adults who are unable to adapt to life’s challenges. Some psychologists are now reversing their opinions on the idea, but some are going too far in the other direction, which can be equally dangerous.” He laid prone behind the M249 and started pumping off rapid three round bursts.
    A concussion grenade thudded in the distance It was close, but not close enough to have shaken their well constructed sandbag walls. A commanding voice bellowed through a megaphone, “WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED. LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS RAISED. YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED.”
    I thought about Dad’s answer. “I think I understand. Like, when mom starts cooking with the garlic powder. A little bit is good, and dinner wouldn’t taste right without it. But too much ruins it.”
    Dad laughed out loud - a rich, hearty sound. He reached over and tousled my hair, then said, “Exactly. There’s always a balance to be found. Where people get in trouble is when they take an idea too far, or toss an idea out altogether because someone else took the idea too far.”
    Pounding footsteps were drawing closer. I flipped the actuator on the handle in my hand to FIRE and squeezed. The M18A1 claymore mines detonated with a deafening cacophony of sonic booms. The footsteps stopped pounding, at least for a moment.
    Dad finished loading up his last belt of ammunition into the M249. A thought tugged at the back of my mind. “But pappa, what about us?” I asked.
    He gave me a sidelong look. “What do you mean?”
    “Isn’t it possible that we’re taking a good idea too far? The compound, the barricades, the weapon caches, the whole resistance thing? Is it possible that we’re taking a good idea, like mounting a defense for what we believe in, and taking it too far, by applying violence to get what we want?”
    Dad stared at me. It was one the only times I had ever seen him not have an instant answer ready in response to a question. After a moment, he shook himself and answered, “No, not us. Definitely not us. We’re very well balanced.”
    I wasn’t so sure. He didn’t look so sure, either, but he gave me a reassuring smile in spite of that. The footsteps had started pounding again, and the voice over the megaphone was blaring even louder than before. Dad stood up and reached a hand out to me, so I took it.
    He slung his last two bandoliers over his shoulder and then turned towards the small opening in sandbags. I hurriedly grabbed my stick grenades with one hand and drew out my sidearm with the other, then I got in line behind him. Before we left the safety of the compound, he looked back over his shoulder and smiled at me again. Artificial light poured in from the opening, making it hard to see his face. But I could still hear him as he called out, in the tone of voice that betrayed no lack of confidence, “C’mon, son, let’s go show them how balanced we really are!”

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...