Archive for September, 2011

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BAIT AND PREY: By Tara Fox Hall

Friday, September 16th, 2011

Sadie kicked her feet, luxuriating in the water as she floated on her inner tube. God, this felt good, especially after such a long drive…

A sudden splash startled her. She turned her head just in time to catch a small wave in the face. Sputtering, she wiped at her eyes, then looked over at the water beside her. Small bubbles were floating to the top. They reached the surface, then popped.

Sadie tried to see down into the water. It was oddly murky today, as if the water couldn’t penetrate the depths.

Something brushed her leg, the sensation like the touch of a feather. She pushed violently away, the movement unbalancing her. With a yell, she fell into the water, her head going under.

Her feet hit the rocky bottom, then pushed off, hands grasping at the rock wall at her side. Choking, she kicked for the surface. Something grasped her shoe, the pressure steady, holding her. Sadie looked down, her hand already reaching to dislodge the rock.

Dark mud colored eyes stared back, the webbed hand clutching her shoe sliding up the grasp her calf. Sadie shrieked, then choked, her lungs filling with water. Flailing, she was drawn down into the depths.

*** 

“I can’t wait for the party tonight,” Greg sighed, cracking open his beer. “I never thought we’d get here—”

“Where’s Sadie go off to?” Jason said, perplexed. “She was right here a minute ago.”

Greg put down his beer, glancing out into the lake. “She’s playing a joke, Gregster. Look.”

Jason turned, staring. “All I see is her tube. What if something’s happened to her?”

“See the bubbles?” Greg said patiently, putting down his beer and pulling his shirt over his head. “They’re coming up regularly. Look at her tube; it’s not drifting off, even with the waves.” He kicked off his shoes. “Come on. She said she was going to get us in the water one way or another—”

Jason cracked a smile, then pulled off his shirt. “Then let’s not let her down.”

Greg nodded, then started for the water.

 _____________________________

©2011 Tara Fox Hall

Tara Fox Hall received her bachelor’s degree in mathematics with a double minor in chemistry and biology from Binghamton University. Her writing credits include nonfiction short stories, flash, short and novella-length horror stories, and contemporary and historical paranormal romance. She also coauthored the essay “The Allure of the Serial Killer,” published in Serial Killers - Philosophy for Everyone: Being and Killing (Wiley-Blackwell, 2010). Her first E-Book, Surrender to Me, was published in September 2011. She divides her free time unequally between writing novels and short stories, chainsawing firewood, caring for stray animals, sewing cat and dog beds for donation to animal shelters, and target practice.

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JUSTICE COMES TO JACK MARRA: By Folly Blaine

Thursday, September 15th, 2011

For Jack Marra’s last meal he ate one bacon cheeseburger, one vanilla malt, two bags of sour cream and cheddar potato chips, and a slice of enchilada pie with extra hot sauce.

A guard came to his cell at 8pm and ordered him to stand. Jack’s finger was in his mouth scraping cilantro off an incisor.

“Anything in my teeth, boss?” he asked, and opened his mouth wide.

The guard shook his head, snapped a pair of handcuffs around Jack’s wrists, and bound his ankles with chain.

“Gotta look good for the cameras,” said Jack. “I’ll be on in twenty-two countries.”

“Is that right?” The guard led Jack to a brightly lit, narrow room. What looked like a dentist’s chair was in the back third, dead center, behind which stood an IV drip and a small table.

“Let me guess,” said Jack. “Lethal injection?”

The guard pushed Jack roughly into the chair. He removed the handcuffs and restrained his arms. Then he removed the chains on his ankles and secured his legs.

A large mirror ran along the wall, probably two-way.

The guard pushed the sides of the headrest forward, so they cradled Jack’s skull. It forced him to stare straight ahead.

The rest of the room was empty–the white tile floor immaculate. There was a faint smell of bleach.

The guard picked up the clipboard, checked off two items, and exited the room, leaving Jack alone. He passed the time by humming the Jeopardy theme song.

The door opened behind him. A man in a white coat stepped in front of Jack–the words “Doctor West” embroidered on his coat pocket in blue thread. The doctor’s hands shook slightly.

“What’s the matter, doc? Never killed a man before?”

With a smooth poke, the doctor inserted the intravenous needle into Jack’s arm and taped it down. “You are being injected with serotonin and norepinephrine,” said Dr. West. “This will provide you with appropriate emotional context.”

“Fuck you,” said Jack.

Dr. West leaned in close. His breath smelled like mint gum and rubbing alcohol. “Say hello to my daughter.”

“I remember her,” hissed Jack. “Huge tits.”

Dr. West straightened, adjusted his tie, and addressed the two-way mirror. “Initiate phase one.”

The doctor left through the door at the back of the room.

A low humming sound buzzed all around him. Jack’s body began to feel heavy, strange.

On the far side of the room, a crowd of people appeared. A pretty brunette, about nineteen years old, stepped forward.

“My name is Charlotte West. You raped me, shot me in the head, and hid my body under a pile of leaves. I was found by two kids playing hide-and-seek.”

“What’s this?” said Jack, groggily.

An old man stepped forward. “My name is Samuel Marra. I curse God every time I think what evil we unleashed upon the world.”

For the first time in Jack’s life, he felt…something. The chemical cocktail pumping through his organs stirred a vestigial ache deep inside.

Another college-aged woman stepped forward. “You surprised me in my apartment. Kept me prisoner in your basement for two weeks. I hope you burn in hell.”

Jack’s eyes watered. Face after victim’s face stepped forward. He remembered what it felt like to carve their flesh, the way the gun shone in the streetlights when he pressed it to their sides. He licked his lips. But his heart stammered. A rush of, something that hurt, some vague cloud of wrong-feeling enveloped him.

Was this guilt? Whatever it was, Jack didn’t like it.

<i>You broke my fingers. You defiled my corpse. You tore the baby from my womb.</i>

The doctor stepped in front of him again–Jack hadn’t heard him enter–and checked the IV drip.

Dr. West addressed the two-way mirror. “Monoamine neurotransmitters simulate the guilt response, while Universal Data Warehouse technology enables a recording of the deceased’s personality to confront their own murderer.” Dr. West cleared his throat and glanced at his daughter in the crowd. “As you can clearly see, unlike lethal injection or the electric chair, this revolutionary new treatment is entirely humane.”

Behind him, Jack howled, “I don’t want to do this anymore. I deserve a clean death.”

The doctor smiled, but his eyes stayed flat. “Killing is wrong, Jack. After fifteen more sessions you’ll understand.”

“It’s cruel and unusual–”

“An eye for an eye is an outdated conceit. Rehabilitation is the future.”

“At least…turn the cameras off,” Jack said, tears streaming down his face.

Dr. West addressed the mirror. “I assure you the patient suffers no pain; he is merely adjusting to his new emotions.”

The confrontations continued throughout the night.

The next morning–his brain flooded with foreign chemicals and his body wracked with remorse–Jack was dragged back to his cell, twitching. He lay in bed for a long time, waiting for the guard to look away.

The last thing Jack saw was the wall rushing at his face, as he slammed his head over and over into the concrete bricks until his skull collapsed.

_____________________________

©2011 Folly Blaine

Folly Blaine is a writer living in Seattle, Washington, whose work has appeared in Every Day Fiction. You can find her online at http://www.follyblaine.com or on Twitter @follyblaine.

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