"No, no, no!" the little terrorist boy shouted, stamping his feet with each utterance. "You're so unfair! All the parents of the other boys in the madrasah are letting them go!"

"Well," the terrorist mother said, folding her arms sternly, "I'm not the mother of all the other boys in the madrasah, now am I?"

Blocked. The terrorist boy seethed young, impetuous anger. His mother, a good foot taller than him, had the upper hand if only by virtue of size. "What about the neighbors?" she teased with a smirk. "I don't think they'd be letting their son go." She turned away from him, her hand reaching for the telephone.

"I hate you!" he screamed, intercepting the distance between his mother's hand and the receiver. Her son had crossed a line. She turned to look at him, her eyes wide and instinctively welling up with tears.

"I hate you!" the terrorist boy repeated. "I hate you more than I hate precious American freedoms!"

Labels: short stories