• A man walked into a school – a wave of shaggy brown hair parted neatly to the left, bewitching blue eyes that twinkled and tripped dazzling the midday breath of light, and a poignant and graceful nose, upturned with a gentle air of elegance. He dressed with a dubious bask of southern charm, sporting a sharp, auburn suit – he waded in rich and captivating demeanor.
    Of course, his figure and visage would mean naught after he raised the Magnum to his temple, and BLAM, blew his brains out all over the trophy case.
    Aldershot main foyer, once a coy mingling of green and off-white now dripped red with crimson blood, caked in the remnants of bone, guts, and other such sundries. That familiar scent of concrete & porcelain, which came to frolic in frantic halls, had been washed away by the putrid stench of the martyr’s carcass. Astonished statues of Grade 7 children had been shocked tableaux, several wearing the splatter of innards that had burst forth and ruptured amidst young minds.
    No one moved.
    No one said a thing.
    No one dare break the silence, so pungent and rich it could intoxicate.
    Every whimper and cry was suffocated, save for the DRIP DRIP DRIP of settling refuse, drizzling over VERITAS NOS DUCAT and the crude Lions who carried the masthead.

    The following day, the Burlington Post would relish in its first real story since the drought preceding the Sound of Music festival. The headline read “SUICIDE AT ALDERSHOT HIGH – ARE YOUR CHILDREN SAFE?” The article was dry, and seemingly & obnoxiously apropos, partnered with an exposé on sprawling teen violence rates. The Post did not see an increase in readership that week, and the comic was tastefully unfunny. The Halton Regional Police did their job with mediocre aplomb, and the monotony of Burlington humdrum returned to its comfortable speed, or lack thereof.
    No one bothered to ask the name of the man.
    No one bothered.