Strange and Unusual Punishment (standard:horror, 1702 words)
Author: red1hols	Added: Feb 07 2005	Views/Reads: 3740/2633	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Society insists that justice is done and seen to be done, but surely the punishment must fit the crime?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

The pencil danced as it teased out the magic number. I had five hundred 
and thirty eight point five one cubic feet of air. 

My brief moment of triumph quickly vanished. I knew how much air I had,
but I don't know how fast I would it. 

I tried to estimate the volume of my lungs by taking a deep breath. My
chest swelled and fell, but I was no better off. While mathematics gave 
me means; biology failed me. All those wasted hours studying the 
lifecycle of amphibians when we could have learned something practical. 


I consoled myself by bellowing a curse at Mr. Davies. My prison didn't
even give me the satisfaction of a melodramatic echo. The lack of any 
acoustics killed my cries. 

The punishment was cruel and unusual. Aren't such things were banned
under the Geneva Convention or the International Bill of Rights? One or 
the other, that I am sure. Just as one of them insists, the punishment 
should fit the crime. 

It was just a silly dare. Pupils were migrating between boring lessons.
As we approached the quadrangle, Rob dared me to break the rules and 
walk across rather than around. I didn't balk. As children peeled off 
left and right, I ploughed straight on through the plush, virgin grass. 


I'd taken about five steps before discovery. 

“Holloway!” Mr. Davies voice boomed out. “My study. 12:30 sharp!” 

The memory caused me to shiver. It was then I realised my cell was
getting warmer. The air seemed to be heavier, the sweet aroma, cloying. 
The taste of tin pervaded my dry mouth. Pressure in my temples 
increased to the point it became dull throb. 

I yawned and loosened my tie. Damp began to seep through my clothes from
the small beads of condensation that had formed on the walls. Breathing 
became a conscious effort. 

The cell wobbled as I sat up and removed my blazer. 

I couldn't see how I could have used five hundred and forty cubic feet
of air. One breath every two seconds; Say half a cubic foot of air a 
breath. I tried to work out the duration of my captivity, but my brain 
still burned on the injustice of it all. I turned again to my 
calculations. I'd forgotten to divide by three! I only had about a 
hundred an eighty cubic feet of life left. 

With all the force I could muster, I punched the wall. The wall just
yielded slightly without even giving me the recognition of pain. 

However well manicured the grass; walking on it didn't merit this
treatment. 

About four feet away, I noticed a diamond shaped, pink smudge on the
cell wall. It became a fascination. It was the merest hint of colour in 
an otherwise off-white world. 

Crawling on my hands and knees, I moved the cell so that the pink smudge
was on the brightest part of the sphere. The smudge mesmerised me. 
Despite my situation, it became my obsession. 

A single breath became a gargantuan effort. Yet my eyes remained fixed
on the smudge. I moved my head slowly from side to side so that I could 
observe it from different angles. I squinted and half closed my eyes so 
that it took on different shapes and hues. The pink smudge made me feel 
happy and light headed. 

Self preservation kicked in. I'm not sure why, but I grabbed the pencil
and started pushing it into the plastic wall. Gently pushing in the tip 
as far as I dared before pulling it out and making another small hole 
just next to the last. After about a dozen holes, I scratched away at 
the holes with my finger nails and a few scraps of the barrier came 
away. 

I repeated the process again and again. I prodded then scratched in a
fury. The hole got bigger and deeper. I became drenched in my own 
sweat. My nails bled. My chest burned with the exertion of staying 
alive. Despite the hurt, I continued to attack the cell wall. 

Suddenly I was free, back in Mr Davies' study. By way of celebration, I
took several huge mouthful of air. 

“Well boy! Give me the paper.” Mr. Davies gave the order an almost
tuneful effect. 

The Head Teacher sneered in a way that only teachers can. He held out an
expertly positioned hand forcing me to bow forward to give him the 
essay. 

There was a few seconds pause before the closing of his fingers to take
my effort. He flicked through the sheets, barely scanning the words 
before expansively dropping it in the waste bin. 

“Learn this lesson, boy.” His tone was softer, more paternal. “If you
continually try to challenge authority, you'll find the consequences a 
darn site more severe than four sides of A4 on ‘The Inside of Ping Pong 
Ball.' Now be off with you. May you never darken my door again.” 

Simon Holder, 2005. 1445 Words. 

Simon Holder writes short stories as the antidote to real life. He
doesn't claim allegiance to any particular genre or style. Nothing is 
too important to be trivialised by his word processor. You might run 
across some of his work in published media. Just remember to be more 
careful next time! Simon dines out on his rather limited publishing 
dredentials. However, he gets his real kicks from reading his work to 
captive audiences. 

This author is available to speak at your event for very reasonable
rates plus expenses (receipts not always provided). His debonair good 
looks, ground breaking style and particularly fine eyebrows mean he is 
ideally suited to broadcast media, particularly radio. With wit that is 
often described as thankfully unique and an imagination rarely seen 
outside of institutions, he is guaranteed to bring a new and unusual 
end to any event, probably involving the sudden arrival of many 
additional, uniformed guests. 

The Fotheringhay and Wattleford Enquirer said of him, 'Simon Holder
spoke for an hour and a half on a variety of subjects and on none. To 
my simple question, his reply ranged through an impressive array of 
topics from modern medicinal research, through hamster rearing to the 
future of space exploration. This would be thought of as impressive had 
my leg not been excessively damp and my original question not been, 
'Where's the Gents?' ' 


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