by S.M. Mulcahy
Flash Fiction Entry Prompt: "salt, pepper, farm"
Charles Poutine was sitting down to a meal, a meal that consisted of runny scrambled eggs, soggy bread, overly sweet apple butter and pulp filled orange juice. He looked around at his cell, rock hard bunk, aluminum toilet & sink with attached a plastic mirror attached. This wasn't new, Charles had lived in a half dozen different cells during his incarceration, but unlike the others this cell was meticulously clean, along with a camera in the corner to monitor his every move. Charles mused that the state doesn't spare any expense when they're about to kill you, but apparently they can't spring for a decent meal. He added salt and pepper but they did little good.
He hardly ate half of the messy plate before he pushed it aside and watched the clock outside his cell tick away. Every human has a finite amount of time on this earth, though few can claim to be able to watch the seconds of their life tick away with such accuracy. Two hours from now, at 7:00AM he would be strapped down to ride the lightning, and that fact filled him with fear like nothing he'd ever known. He only hoped he could face his end with what dignity the occasion would allow. But, if this sham of a breakfast had accomplished anything, it made him think of the farm he grew up on, and the real home cooked breakfasts he'd loved so much. As he sat ruminating on those early mornings, a priest came to the cell door.
"Charles, I've come to pray with you and for your soul." He said
"You can keep me company padre," Charles replied, "But you needn't pray. With any luck, I'll be going home in a while, back where a man could get a proper breakfast."