Lone Shooter by Sage Tyrtle

At the playground, a five-year-old boy levels an invisible rifle at my nursing baby. He’s standing on a rope bridge between the slide and the monkey bars, and he sights like we are a doe and her fawn. Dizzy with rage, I stand up and Anna flails. I fumble to cover my bare nipple. On the bridge, the boy squints and re-aims, his invisible rifle pointing now at the back of Anna’s head. With shaking hands, I pull the sling up around her, a millimeter of fabric between her and the boy. He tosses his blonde curls out of his eyes. He looks like an ad for milk.

My skin is hot, prickling. The boy grins and reveals a missing front tooth. He’s still aiming his invisible rifle at us, and I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone more. There’s a woman sitting a few benches away, same blonde curls, typing something into her phone and giggling to herself. Anna squawks and I release my grip on her a little, kiss her forehead. She smells like butter and brown sugar.

When I climb the steps to the bridge, the boy swings his invisible rifle around so it’s aimed at my forehead. My weight on the bridge unbalances him, and he has to lean against the rope sides. His mother is talking on her phone now in high, fluting tones, her back to us and so I reach out and wrench the invisible rifle from the boy, who lets go in surprise and says, Hey! Quit it! and reaches out to snatch it back. Instead of smashing the invisible stock into his nose and giving him two black eyes, I throw it as far as I can. Anna watches from the sling, blinking her brown eyes. You can’t DO that, says the boy, and I lean forward until I’m just an inch from his face.

I hiss, I’m the monster under your bed. He flinches and I move closer, boxing him in. The next time you point a gun at somebody, I’ll grab your ankles and pull you under with me. His blue eyes are huge and he’s breathing fast. He’s not a lone shooter anymore, he’s a transfixed rabbit. My teeth are so sharp, I say, when I’m angry.

His hands go to his crotch and there’s a sharp smell of ammonia. Pee runs down his legs from under his shorts. His mother is laughing on her phone, and I whisper, Don’t forget. He’s the one shaking now as I go down the steps, grab my backpack, and head for home.

We walk past the elementary school, past neat houses, past children playing basketball in their front yard, and whatever is happening inside is invisible. It looks safe. It looks like the kind of place you’d move to when you were ready to start a family. We walk. My hands won’t stop shaking.

---

SAGE TYRTLE — Sage writes stories unsettling enough for The Offing, yet NPR let them on air. A Moth GrandSLAM winner and Pushcart nominee, they’ve taught 150+ workshops for Smokelong Quarterly and Clarion West among others. Their work lives at the intersection of literary craft and, “Wait, did they just say that?” Find stories that linger at tyrtle.com.

Art by ALAINA HAMMOND — Alaina is a poet, playwright, fiction writer, and visual artist. Four of her flash fiction stories were nominated for the Pushcart Prize, all in 2025. @alainaheidelberger on Instagram.