Post by Blithian on Mar 1, 2011 2:53:41 GMT -5
They were torturing the guy in the movie with electrodes attached to his genitals. They increased the voltage and man screamed. His interrogators whispered to themselves while the prisoner kept on screaming.
C.J. turned away from the movie screen, his stomach churning. He could almost feel the man’s pain; smell the sickening-sweet scent of burning flesh. He got up from his seat in the dark and faced the flickering light of the projector. He walked unsteadily up the aisle and out of the theater.
The painful glare of the sun outside caused him to squint as he started to cross the street. He heard the squeal of brakes as a car stopped only a couple of feet from him. The driver loudly cursed, then drove past him and down the street.
He crossed Main Street more cautiously, heading straight for the ice cream parlor. Even as he entered, he could smell all the cool flavors. He eagerly ordered his favorite.
“How many?” the counter-girl asked, holding the scoop in her hand.
“Just two. Two scoops of strawberry, please,” C.J. replied.
There was a brilliant flash of lightning and the smell of strawberries became almost overwhelming.
“How many?” repeated the counter-girl, her voice curiously changing, lowering, deepening, “how many?”
C.J. tried to keep thinking of strawberries and from somewhere distant he heard a familiar voice, “You don’t have to tell the bastards nothin’ but your name, rank and...”
A thud, a grunt, and the voice was silenced. C.J. laughed through smashed lips, spitting blood from his badly bitten tongue. It was funny. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember his name, rank and serial number.
“Two scoops,” he mumbled to his interrogators before passing out again.
Copyright (C) 1955 & 2011 by John Bliven Morin
C.J. turned away from the movie screen, his stomach churning. He could almost feel the man’s pain; smell the sickening-sweet scent of burning flesh. He got up from his seat in the dark and faced the flickering light of the projector. He walked unsteadily up the aisle and out of the theater.
The painful glare of the sun outside caused him to squint as he started to cross the street. He heard the squeal of brakes as a car stopped only a couple of feet from him. The driver loudly cursed, then drove past him and down the street.
He crossed Main Street more cautiously, heading straight for the ice cream parlor. Even as he entered, he could smell all the cool flavors. He eagerly ordered his favorite.
“How many?” the counter-girl asked, holding the scoop in her hand.
“Just two. Two scoops of strawberry, please,” C.J. replied.
There was a brilliant flash of lightning and the smell of strawberries became almost overwhelming.
“How many?” repeated the counter-girl, her voice curiously changing, lowering, deepening, “how many?”
C.J. tried to keep thinking of strawberries and from somewhere distant he heard a familiar voice, “You don’t have to tell the bastards nothin’ but your name, rank and...”
A thud, a grunt, and the voice was silenced. C.J. laughed through smashed lips, spitting blood from his badly bitten tongue. It was funny. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember his name, rank and serial number.
“Two scoops,” he mumbled to his interrogators before passing out again.
Copyright (C) 1955 & 2011 by John Bliven Morin
and 
all
time for me 
echoes, hope you all are doing well 
