GOOD OF THE TOWN By: Michelle Howarth
Friday, February 27th, 2009Chris understood. It was for his mother, his father, little sister Kimmy. For the good of the town. Most important of all, for Jen. He had to go through with it. No protests. No crying, whimpering, or begging. If he was on his way out – and he sure as hell was – he’d go with his head held up, and no tear in his eye.
Least, that’s how he planned it. When the time came for him to be thrust up in chains and led to the stone, his valiant scheme flew out the window with its tail between its legs. The closer they dragged him, the more his heart clapped. The more he pleaded, cried, and choked on his tears. He clawed the ground while two priests towed him by his ankles, and his parents, little Kimmy, the whole town, and Jen, stood in a semicircle and watched – ashen faced, silent, and revered. No doubt ashamed of his performance.
Chris didn’t calm down after they fastened the bolts around his neck. The two priests fled upon securing the padlock, leaving Chris screaming, gnawing the chain like a dog.
He stopped when the gong sounded, and the cave opposite rumbled.
It was coming.
A gasp from the spectators rose as its shadow smeared into the sunlight, and its rotten meat breath poured forth like a bowl of spoiled stew. Claws squealed and Chris notched his panic into overdrive. He flung himself against the stone, and hammered it with his fists. He kicked at its base, swung his whole body from side to side, not looking back, not even when a gooey droplet – hot and sticky – slopped into his hair.
Something with the consistency of warm, wet sandpaper lashed his arm. Chris screamed, and pulled his tether, determined to survive.
He heard a crack. The age old stone crumbled just a tiny bit, and bolt holding the chain popped free. It whipped through the air, over Chris’s head, and released a bellow that rang louder than an elephant with a nail embedded in its foot.
Chain loose, Chris raced for the town’s people. At first, he figured they were cheering – hailing his miraculous escape, praising him for his dumb good fortunes. But then he saw their twisted, horrified faces. The look of abject fear crawling through their eyes.
They weren’t cheering at all.
His mother, father, and little Kimmy were crying, hugging each other, and Jen was an ice sculpture, her eyes fixed on the black clouds sprinting through the sky.
“What have you done?” she screamed.
The ground trembled, and a furious roar shook the air.
Chris watched the townsfolk scatter. Their lives – all of them – the cost of his living.
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©2009 Michelle Howarth
Michelle Howarth’s publishing credits include appearances in the Absent Willow Review, Drabblecast, Dark Fire, Thaumatrope, Strange Publications Fifty-Two Stitches anthology, Morpheus Tales Magazine, and Ballista Magazine, where she has been awarded first prize in their short story contest 2008. She also does some work as an editor and enjoys acting as submissions editor for Shock Totem magazine. For more of her work, visit www.michellehowarth.co.uk
