Copyright 2010 by Carl Garrett
When Patience Randolph awoke to find herself back in the oak four-poster from which she had disappeared a hundred years before, she did not shout or dance or weep with joy, for she had learned, over time, the value of restraint. She sat up, breathed deeply the air of liberty, and looked with pity upon the ancient wedding portrait that hung on the wall to the left. The groom cast a black-eyed smile. The bride’s expression was blank, but Patience knew to look in the eyes, saw the blazing terror and confusion that shone in them.
“He will be very cruel to you” she explained to her deliverer, “But as you can see, some day he will find another who strikes his fancy more, and you will be free. Do your best to take comfort from that.” And Patience went out to see how the world had changed.
5/2/10
4/4/10
Company Policy
Copyright 2010 by Carl Garrett
Gerald Beckwith's scowl was legendary among his underlings at HealthChoice, but the scruffy, sorrowful man on his computer screen could not see it, and was therefore immune. "I see you've logged on, Mister Beckwith," the man said, his voice a dreary whisper. "I guess we can start, now."
"If this is a joke," Beckwith snarled to his trembling VP of Operations, "I swear to God I'll personally sign your final check. Who is this piece of shit?"
"M-Martin Westover, sir. He was employed by Techflow. A m-minor client. Fifty employees. Lost his daughter to cancer last year. After we canceled Techflow's contract. Due to her expenses." The wispy wreck that was Martin Westover backed away from the camera, but the concrete-walled room he occupied revealed nothing. "Again, I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but h-he's tied up our entire network with this, said he wouldn't stop until you logged on. We can't shut him down. He's... very good."
Westover pressed a button, and the image began to pan left. "I know you don't understand, Mister Beckwith. I know you can't. You don't know what it's like to see your child die..." Beckwith boiled. This hacker, this dirtbag, had no idea what he was in for. "You've got no idea... to see her die, little by little, bit by bit..." And when the camera finished panning, when Gerald Beckwith saw the table, saw the small, terrified form strapped to it, saw the gleaming, sinister implements in the tray beside it, his scowl fell to pieces, and the rest of him with it.
"Madeline," he stammered. "Maddy. MADDY!"
"You don't know," Westover said, tears pouring out of his mad eyes as he reached for the tray, "But you will."
Gerald Beckwith's scowl was legendary among his underlings at HealthChoice, but the scruffy, sorrowful man on his computer screen could not see it, and was therefore immune. "I see you've logged on, Mister Beckwith," the man said, his voice a dreary whisper. "I guess we can start, now."
"If this is a joke," Beckwith snarled to his trembling VP of Operations, "I swear to God I'll personally sign your final check. Who is this piece of shit?"
"M-Martin Westover, sir. He was employed by Techflow. A m-minor client. Fifty employees. Lost his daughter to cancer last year. After we canceled Techflow's contract. Due to her expenses." The wispy wreck that was Martin Westover backed away from the camera, but the concrete-walled room he occupied revealed nothing. "Again, I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but h-he's tied up our entire network with this, said he wouldn't stop until you logged on. We can't shut him down. He's... very good."
Westover pressed a button, and the image began to pan left. "I know you don't understand, Mister Beckwith. I know you can't. You don't know what it's like to see your child die..." Beckwith boiled. This hacker, this dirtbag, had no idea what he was in for. "You've got no idea... to see her die, little by little, bit by bit..." And when the camera finished panning, when Gerald Beckwith saw the table, saw the small, terrified form strapped to it, saw the gleaming, sinister implements in the tray beside it, his scowl fell to pieces, and the rest of him with it.
"Madeline," he stammered. "Maddy. MADDY!"
"You don't know," Westover said, tears pouring out of his mad eyes as he reached for the tray, "But you will."
2/22/10
Life Sentence
Copyright 2010 by Carl Garrett
Ed was not sentimental; he'd married Emily for her money and murdered her for the same. He produced his well-prepared alibi, smirked behind the backs of the departing officers. But when Emily's brother, Rick, stormed in, his voice a-tremble with rage as he hissed, You won't see a penny of her money. You'll spend the rest of your life in prison, Ed laughed the silly bore out of the house and into the night. He chuckled to himself about the incident until the attack came in the dark, the well-aimed blow to his spine just above the shoulder blades, the sickening crack, and then nothing.
Later, as he lay in his specially-designed bed, gazed upon his now-useless limbs, felt the hissing/muttering clamor of machinery and caregivers that would surely consume every cent of Emily's money, he realized that Rick had kept his word.
Ed was not sentimental; he'd married Emily for her money and murdered her for the same. He produced his well-prepared alibi, smirked behind the backs of the departing officers. But when Emily's brother, Rick, stormed in, his voice a-tremble with rage as he hissed, You won't see a penny of her money. You'll spend the rest of your life in prison, Ed laughed the silly bore out of the house and into the night. He chuckled to himself about the incident until the attack came in the dark, the well-aimed blow to his spine just above the shoulder blades, the sickening crack, and then nothing.
Later, as he lay in his specially-designed bed, gazed upon his now-useless limbs, felt the hissing/muttering clamor of machinery and caregivers that would surely consume every cent of Emily's money, he realized that Rick had kept his word.
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