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Ride the Lightning
©2001 Kristine Dommer
Clive Baskin's turn to ride the lightning came with the ratchet and clash of a heavy iron door.
"C'mon, Clive," the head screw's voice was softened by the gravity of the moment. "It's time."
"Let's get it done, then," Clive said. He left his cell and walked, bracketed by four guards, down the tile hall with easy, lazy strides. The echoes of their footsteps walked in stately parade behind.
They entered a small, bare room at the end of the hall, where a priest waited with somber expression. Clive waved the man away, and the priest left the room in a swirl of black robe and purple stole. Clive didn't want to hear about his soul. He didn't much care about it. Only one thing mattered now: The lightning.
The guards shrugged at each other at the dismissal of the priest, then led Clive through his last door.
There, in the center of a cement floor, sat Clive's ride. The chair was wooden, straight-backed and hard, with metal clamps at the arms and legs. A metal cap was cocked at a rakish angle over one of the back supports.
Clive grinned at the chair, not noticing the guard stepping away from the force of that grin. The guards had ceased to exist. Only the lightning remained.
Clive's smile widened, becoming nearly lovely, and he walked to the chair with no urging. He took his seat and waited to ride the lightning.
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