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Authors: Todd Russell
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take things beyond reasonable. This was originally posted in the Father's Day writing contest at AIN. A question worth pondering: who's the bad guy in this story? Is it one of the boys or their father? The last line in this story still gives me chills.
Overtime has ended. I hope you enjoyed Mental Shrillness and will join me for more stories in the future. If you want to leave a review at Amazon, I'd sure be grateful. Thank you for reading.
Horrifically Yours,
Todd Russell
July 14, 2011
Fresh Flesh
Todd Russell
Fresh Flesh is coming September 29, 2011
~Chapter 1~
Two burly guards with poker faces strapped him in the chair while a minister quoted psalms from an immaculate white Bible. Richard Templin was nineteen years old and sentenced to die on this day October 17, 1982.
The shackles tightened, tightened, snapped! on his wrists. The metal shackles were cold, perhaps colder than any one thing on earth. And, he nervously reminded himself, a wonderful conductor of electricity.
He had been calm, only one nail chewed, until they brought him into the room and put him in the chair. Then he started sweating all over. Started fighting back tears.
Started realizing...
Oh God I'm gonna die I'm gonna die there gonna kill me oh God shit God they're gonna light me up like a fucking Christmas tree oh God ...
SNAP! The shackles hugged his bare ankles. They were even colder than the wrist shackles, turning his sweat to ice.
His conscience mocked him: don't sweat Rich ol' boy! Hold on! You sweat and you'll fry a helluva lot quicker! 'Cuz you learned it in school, boy: water's one of the BEST conductors!
They brought the heavy black leather strap across his chest, tighter, tighter, tight—SNAP! He was buckled in, ready for the roller coaster ride straight down.
Well, almost ready. The men had to tape his eyes, the last task, so they wouldn't pop out and scare the fifty or so "witnesses." Ha, glad somebody gets to watch the show, munch the popcorn, and make out when the lights go down .
The sound of the tape being ripped behind his head sent the hairs on the back of his neck erect. It sounded like what he imagined flesh to do when you tore it to pieces.
Oh God, footsteps! They're walking away! Getting ready to turn on the juice and give me the ultimate spark oh God its sooo dark please please God turn on the lights make it end, make it end, make it—
Footsteps fading...fading...
Soooo dark.
...fading...STOP. The heels clicked to an abrupt halt. He could almost see the expressionless guard next to the switch, ready, awaiting the cue. Standing next to him, a tired rich doctor with stethoscope like close friend dangling around his neck. Let's get this over with , he's probably thinking, I have squash for two in an hour .
The guard assured the doctor with a wink of an eye: only take a minute, Doc—and a couple thousand volts! Ah-ha-ha-HA! Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Hours, days, years? It seemed he balanced at the crest of the nightmare a long time before something happened.
His body was wet as someone who had just stepped out of the shower, his teeth chattered and bones quivered.
This was not at all what he'd envisioned. He'd expected it to be quick, merciful and painless. Something like a trip through a fast food drive-thru.
The ripping sound came again. Fast, powerful, driving down on his skull like a jackhammer. His head rocked, his eyes closed to even deeper darkness.
Several seconds passed. He hoped this fathomless black was not life after death. That there was a magical place where angels flocked and devils mocked. That death was not drowning, over and over, in a sea of black.
More seconds passed before he realized...
Oh God my God they didn't do it they didn't flip the switch they didn't they didn't
He wondered for a moment about that Ambrose Bierce story, the one where the guy who's about to be hanged manages to escape, races toward his sweetheart's arms, only to find that
Overtime has ended. I hope you enjoyed Mental Shrillness and will join me for more stories in the future. If you want to leave a review at Amazon, I'd sure be grateful. Thank you for reading.
Horrifically Yours,
Todd Russell
July 14, 2011
Fresh Flesh
Todd Russell
Fresh Flesh is coming September 29, 2011
~Chapter 1~
Two burly guards with poker faces strapped him in the chair while a minister quoted psalms from an immaculate white Bible. Richard Templin was nineteen years old and sentenced to die on this day October 17, 1982.
The shackles tightened, tightened, snapped! on his wrists. The metal shackles were cold, perhaps colder than any one thing on earth. And, he nervously reminded himself, a wonderful conductor of electricity.
He had been calm, only one nail chewed, until they brought him into the room and put him in the chair. Then he started sweating all over. Started fighting back tears.
Started realizing...
Oh God I'm gonna die I'm gonna die there gonna kill me oh God shit God they're gonna light me up like a fucking Christmas tree oh God ...
SNAP! The shackles hugged his bare ankles. They were even colder than the wrist shackles, turning his sweat to ice.
His conscience mocked him: don't sweat Rich ol' boy! Hold on! You sweat and you'll fry a helluva lot quicker! 'Cuz you learned it in school, boy: water's one of the BEST conductors!
They brought the heavy black leather strap across his chest, tighter, tighter, tight—SNAP! He was buckled in, ready for the roller coaster ride straight down.
Well, almost ready. The men had to tape his eyes, the last task, so they wouldn't pop out and scare the fifty or so "witnesses." Ha, glad somebody gets to watch the show, munch the popcorn, and make out when the lights go down .
The sound of the tape being ripped behind his head sent the hairs on the back of his neck erect. It sounded like what he imagined flesh to do when you tore it to pieces.
Oh God, footsteps! They're walking away! Getting ready to turn on the juice and give me the ultimate spark oh God its sooo dark please please God turn on the lights make it end, make it end, make it—
Footsteps fading...fading...
Soooo dark.
...fading...STOP. The heels clicked to an abrupt halt. He could almost see the expressionless guard next to the switch, ready, awaiting the cue. Standing next to him, a tired rich doctor with stethoscope like close friend dangling around his neck. Let's get this over with , he's probably thinking, I have squash for two in an hour .
The guard assured the doctor with a wink of an eye: only take a minute, Doc—and a couple thousand volts! Ah-ha-ha-HA! Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Hours, days, years? It seemed he balanced at the crest of the nightmare a long time before something happened.
His body was wet as someone who had just stepped out of the shower, his teeth chattered and bones quivered.
This was not at all what he'd envisioned. He'd expected it to be quick, merciful and painless. Something like a trip through a fast food drive-thru.
The ripping sound came again. Fast, powerful, driving down on his skull like a jackhammer. His head rocked, his eyes closed to even deeper darkness.
Several seconds passed. He hoped this fathomless black was not life after death. That there was a magical place where angels flocked and devils mocked. That death was not drowning, over and over, in a sea of black.
More seconds passed before he realized...
Oh God my God they didn't do it they didn't flip the switch they didn't they didn't
He wondered for a moment about that Ambrose Bierce story, the one where the guy who's about to be hanged manages to escape, races toward his sweetheart's arms, only to find that
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