When his flesh is burning it is not from the execution, that was successful, he is actually burning in Hell. He knows he is home.
Flash Fiction / The Last Mile (Analysis)
I AM SITTING ON THE BUNK, STARING AT THE BARS. THERE IS NO CLOCK HANGING ON THE GRAY DRAB STONE WALLS, YET I CAN HEAR THE TICK TICKING OF TIME AS IT APPROACHES. TIME IS NOW MY ENEMY AND A VICIOUS ONE IT IS. THERE IS A DISTANT CLANGING AND SOMEWHERE IN THE DARK DEPTHS A LONELY SOUL CRIES OUT IN DESPERATION.
I HEAR THE APPROACH OF THE REAPER. HE COMES ON THUMPING POLISHED JACKBOOTED SOLES. SOLES COMING FOR MY SOUL.
THEY STOP IN FRONT OF ME ON THE FREEDOM SIDE OF THE BARS. UNIFORMS CRISP AND PRESSED, BADGES GLEAMING. I CAN SMELL THE GUN OIL EMANATING FROM THE WEAPONS HELD IN CALLOUSED HANDS. HANDS GRIPPING THEM ACHING FOR AN OPPORTUNITY TO CUT ME DOWN IN BLAZING FIRE. THEIR FACES ARE HIDDEN IN SHADOW BUT I CAN FEEL THE HATRED PERCOLATING FROM THEIR COLD EYES. IT IS ALMOST A TANGIBLE THING.
THE ONE IN FRONT SPEAKS TWO WORDS. TWO WORDS THAT WILL BE SOME OF THE LAST I EVER HEAR.
“IT’S TIME YOU ROTTEN BASTARD.”
THERE ARE NO WORDS FROM ME. THERE IS NOTHING LEFT FOR ME TO SAY. I RISE AND ALLOW THE COLD STEEL TO BE CLAMPED AROUND MY WRISTS AND ANKLES UNTIL IT BITES IN DRAWING BLACK EVIL BLOOD. THEY GAPE AT ME AND I CAN SEE THEIR FACES NOW. THEIR FACES ARE LIKE THE WALLS. GRAY, DRAB, STONE. THE ONE IN FRONT SLIPS A BLACK HOOD OVER MY HEAD AND BLOTS OUT THE SUNSHINE COMING THROUGH THE SMALL BARRED WINDOW.
I CAN HEAR MUFFLED ECHOS OF OTHERS IN CAGES LAUGHING, CAT-CALLING AND JEERING AT ME. SPITTLE AND CURSES FLY IN MY DIRECTION BUT ALL I HEAR IN MY HEAD IS THE SWEET TONES OF AN OLD HYMN “HOW GREAT THOU ART”.
STRONG ARMS AND GRIPPING HANDS LIKE CLAWS GUIDE ME ROUGHLY TO A WOODEN CHAIR. THE METAL AROUND MY EXTREMITIES IS REMOVED AND SUBSEQUENTLY REPLACED BY LEATHER STRAPS. THE STRAPS ARE TIGHTENED DOWN AND I FEEL IN THE PIT OF MY ROTTEN GUTS THAT THE END IS NIGH AND THEN ETERNITY AWAITS ME.
I HEAR THE SOUND OF SOMEONE DIPPING THEIR HAND INTO A BUCKET AND IN A MOMENT A SPONGE SOAKED IN WATER IS PLACED ON MY HEAD AND A COLD METAL CAP IS PLACED UPON MY SHAVEN HEAD SMOOSHING THE SPONGE DOWN AND STRAPPED TIGHT UNDER MY CHIN GRINDING MY TEETH TOGETHER. I BITE INTO MY TOUNGUE DRAWING YET MORE BLOOD. THE TASTE IS COPPERY IN MY MOUTH LIKE AN OLD PENNY. WATER FROM THE SPONGE LEAKS DOWN MY FACE RUNNING IN RIVULETS UNDER THE DARKNESS OF THE BLACK HOOD.
I CAN SEE NOTHING BEYOND THE SHADOWS OF THE HOOD COVERING MY FACE.
A VOICE FROM MY LEFT SPEAKS IN A DEEP TONE WITH A NOTE OF FINALITY TO IT.
“SIR, YOU HAVE BEEN CONDEMED BY THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA TO BE PUT TO DEATH. ELECTRICITY SHALL NOW BE PASSED THROUGH YOUR BODY UNTIL YOU ARE DEAD. MAY GOD HAVE MERCY ON YOUR ETERNAL SOUL.”
THERE IS A MUFFLED CLICKING AND THEN I ARCH MY BACK AS A SHARP PAIN SHOOTS FROM HEAD TO TOE FOR AN INSTANT AND THEN NOTHING BUT BLACKNESS.
IN A FEW MOMENTS I CAN SEE AGAIN. FLAMES LICK ALL AROUND ME CHARRING MY FLESH AND ACRID SMOKE ROILS INTO MY EYES MAKING THEM WATER. WITH TEARS RUNNING DOWN MY CHEEKS TRACING CLEAN PATHS THROUGH THE SOOT THAT IS NOW STARTING TO CLING TO ME, I KNOW I THAT AM FINALLY HOME.
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rollingbolus reviewed Version 1 -
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Nosferatu_Networker reviewed Version 1 -
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There are 1000 stories just like this. It needs something. It needs an edge to make it your own. A different twist.perhaps also a title change. As in it sounds too much like the green mile.
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snarfus reviewed Version 1 -
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trident reviewed Version 1 -
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chasscot reviewed Version 1 -
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All caps… too glaring to read this.
tick-tocking
“It’s time you rotten bastard” is more than two words.
“gray drab stone” is used twice. Vary the adjectives.
what is “black evil blood”?
‘I hear the sound…” this sentences rambles and runs. It needs to be broken into smaller sentences or revised.
“I taste the blood, coppery like a penny.”
Show them putting on the hood.
Usually in executions they state the name of the convicted, and what they are being put to death for. They offered final words.
There is also an opportunity for tension here as they wait for the governer to offer a stay of execution.
If this isn’t a botched execution, the water on the sponge should conduct the electricity through his body evenly – with no metal conduits to superheat and burn his flesh.
All in all, there is no suspense here, no point to the story. No emotion – not much by way of showing pain. You do target the sensation of taste, and to some extent tactile sensation (the walls are cold). I would rather him touch the walls to ascertain that – rather than use the word to describe the color.
This is a good start, but it really needs some focus. Ask yourself – why did I write this? What was I trying to convey?
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