"Guilty," the gavel echoed through the silent courtroom like a thunderclap. A woman began crying somewhere in the room, sobbing softly.
It had been a foregone conclusion, that's what the press would say. A mere formality.
But my client is innocent.
I couldn't prove him innocent, or rather, I couldn't even prove him not guilty. I tried so hard, I thought so long and so deeply, studied so punctiliously and widely, but to no avail. I looked at my client, a young man, and he nodded at me in a serious, understanding fashion. He knew what I had done for him, or tried to do.
The session was enecded the verdict given, and the people began to shuffle from the courtroom, the hushed sobbing faded. I wondered who she was, this lone woman who seemed to see what I saw. Not the guilty man rightfully punished that the rest of the world, the judge, the man's own parents observed, but the tragic sentence given down on the wrong, wronged man. Was she a witness? A sap, who deep down probably believed he was as guilty as the rest, but shed tears for all that? Most likely an overly emotional, self centered but seemingly tender hearted individual, shedding tears as she walked through life, sowing on the good ground and the bad equally, caring not who she was pitying.
My client seemed to be thinking along similar lines. He had no illusions about what the public thought of him.
I brushed back my hair with my hand, closing my eyes. The main problem is that visions are not excepted as evidence in a court of law. Otherwise we'd have been pretty well set.
I had a dream, not a natural, ordinary dream, but a supernatural one. I saw my client moving up to a darkened house. He seemed tired, as though from a long evening of labor, and he didn't realize that he had arrived "home" to the wrong house. The door ws unlocked and he went in.
He was far from being alone in that house, and that he should have made the mistake that he did on the night that he did is a coincidence or a miracle. The real murderer was already inside. In that dark place, that terrible night, many things were in motions, many coincidences collided in a burst of incomprehension. What emerged was a terrifying illusion, that my client had killed a man and his wife that night.
By Micah Arkov Kakaru:
http://supergoggles.wordpress.com/2012/06/25/imagination/
Guilt By Andrew Velox:
I knelt silently before the grave, the small white card a temporary gravestone.
Adriana Martinez
1974-2012
Loving Wife and Mother
My eyes couldn’t leave her name. As much as I wanted them to, I couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help but let the torrent of memories rush upon me. I remembered the first day we had met, how I had spilled her coffee accidentally, walking without paying attention to where I was going.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” I said quickly, taking out a napkin and handing it to her, picking up the fallen cup. “Here, let me buy you a new one.”
I would’ve thought she would have been furious at me, but instead she simply smiled and accepted my offer. I smiled back, and together we walked back to the coffee shop.
It seemed so long ago now. A lifetime ago. Yet at the same time, it seemed like just yesterday. We shared a coffee together afterwards, and somehow I had had the courage to ask for her number, and even more of a miracle was that she had given me her real one. That was one of the greatest days of my life. I remembered our first real date…how nervous I had been, how much I had prepared for it.
“Dude, chill, it’s going to be okay,” my best friend Aaron said to me.
But I couldn’t help it. I fidgeted nervously, wringing my hands together and pacing the backyard. I had set up a table accompanied by candles and a waiter in a tux: Aaron. Every she didn’t show seemed like an hour.
“Are you sure everything’s okay?”
“Yes, it’s fine! Just look at it, it’s perfect,” he replied. I had to agree, it did look pretty nice. But that didn’t stop me from worrying. I had never felt this way about a woman before. I remembered just two days ago when I had only met her because of my clumsiness. I remembered the lovely conversation we had, where we discovered so many similarities. I remem—
The doorbell rang. The intense desire burned in my heart all the greater and I rushed toward the door.
A tear fell from my eye. She had loved that date so much, the perfect smile of hers always present on her face. Yet I couldn’t see it. The memories were all a fog, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not see her face. Why? I asked myself, but could think of no answer. I shook my head quickly, trying to forget, focusing again on the happy memories. Yet that only made it worse as after every smile from every memory I realized that that was what I lost. Her. Gone forever.
I buried my head in my hands as I remembered the day I proposed. A beautiful dinner at a fancy restaurant, with a garden and balcony overlooking the ocean. I remembered how happy she had been when I got on one knee, but I couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see her smile, her face.
It was the guilt. I had done this. It was because of me that she was dead. I should’ve listened to her when she begged me to leave my job – an undercover cop infiltrating gangs. It was dangerous. I knew that the moment I slipped up, the moment they found out, my family was dead. But I thought I was good enough. Good enough to evade their discovery forever.
I was wrong.
More tears fell. ”I’m sorry,” I whispered to the stone. Hoping I could say it to her, but knowing that I never could. I only wished she knew…knew how sorry I was. But it was too late now. She was gone.
I tried to think of other happy memories – almost every moment we had spent together; our wedding, the happiest day of my life; the birth of our child, the second happiest day of my life. But I couldn’t. Now all I saw was her body with a hole in her head, a pool of blood under it. The duct-tape on her mouth, hands, and feet. The look of fear in her still-open, dead eyes. This picture of her face, her half blown-off face, would be the only one I could ever see again.
The guilt consumed me.
Aaron approached from behind, probably wondering why I was still here, hours later after the funeral.
“C’mon, man,” he said, “it’s not your fault.”
“But it is.” The guilt wouldn't let me think any differently.
The Hunter By Will Tolkien:
It was dark in the tunnel beyond the door. Water dripped and ran in little rivulets, collecting in puddles amongst the pebbles that littered the floor. It had been raining all week, and the corridors were damp with it.
The lantern sputtered as it swung in the draft that moved through the small room and then out into the tunnel. It cast a yellowish light on the group of men that crouched or stood around the walls. They were almost ready. The weapons were almost prepared, ammunition was stocked. It was tricky business, loading the powder in the damp, dripping quarters, but they had no choice. One man held his coat out like a tent while two others worked to fill the small, explosive caskets.
There were eight men, but only five rifles to go around. It was all they had, since they had been forced to abandon the last outpost. They would have to wait until the searchers moved on before they could retrieve more. Until then, five rifles would have to do.
Harmon shifted on his feet, letting his gaze wander the room. He felt uneasy about this venture. Everyone did. It was like a knot in his stomach, but there was nothing for it. It had been a day since the drum-beater came, and it was only sheer luck that had saved them then—sheer luck that no one had been outside when it had stalked through the ruins. The creatures did not usually hunt during the day, but this one had.
Harmon swallowed and blinked. His eyes settled on the man sitting in the corner, head back, eyes half-closed. His name was Foster, and out of all of them, he had the most invested in this plan. The trouble had all started two days ago, when his oldest daughter was taken. It was a shock when she didn’t return, and it had been all they could do to keep Foster from going out there alone that very night. But there was no point. There wouldn’t even be a body…
He felt guilty at the thought. It was Foster’s daughter, but they had all lost someone close. Harmon sighed and pushed off from the wall. It was getting towards noon. They would have to move out soon.
The lantern sputtered and popped, and Foster sat up from his chair. His eyes were hard in the flickering light, one hand gripping the long-barreled rifle that sat across his knees. The other men had finished stowing the supplies and weapons.
It was time.
--
Harmon was the first out of the tunnel. It was a gray, drizzling day. The sun was just a patch of brightness overhead, shaded by low-hanging clouds. He had allowed his eyes to adjust to the sunlight before creeping into the open, and now he checked the horizon, tense and ready.
The other men followed when he gave the signal. They spread out along the path that ran through the ruined cluster of buildings. It had been a good shelter, and the tunnels beneath the burned-out complex had hidden them for months. But that was all in jeopardy, now that one of Them had visited the camp. Harmon shivered at the memory—how he had heard the rhythmic noise of them echoing from the surface. The sound did things to you. They were all sure of it. It messed with your mind.
They found tracks on the path—triangular indents in the wet earth. Unmistakable. They led westward. That was good. They would draw its attention. Draw it farther from the settlement. They had done it before. They would do it again.
The men went in file, close together. The rain fell in slow curtains around them, obscuring the horizon like a mist. It was a blessing, because it meant they could walk easily, without fear of being heard at a distance, but it made the going slow, tiresome. The tracks continued across the flat, scrub-covered plain to the west, and then down into a shallow gully. The thing had crossed there, and then circled north.
Foster lead the way, rifle clenched in one fist. Hours passed, and still no sign. The trail was old, and the men were getting tense with each passing minute, but Foster kept on, his face taught. It was personal for him. They all knew it.
They stopped to rest after another hour, crouching in the gray drizzle as they took their bearings again.
Suddenly, Harmon heard something. Faint above the patter of the rain, it throbbed in his ears, and he thought for a moment that he was imagining it. But then he glanced at the other men, and knew that he was not.
They stood in unison. The rhythm came from the north, over the next slope. It was still far off, but it was there.
The time had come.
--
Harmon and four others lay prostrate against the muddy hillside, straining their eyes through cracked spyglasses as they watched and waited. The other men had taken the decoys west along the hillside. They were explosive shells designed to draw the creature away with smoke and sound. They would lead a merry chase.
Foster had gone with them. He would have it no other way. An hour had passed. They should be returning soon, after they had lit the fuses. Harmon swept the field before him and the hillside, searching for any sign. It was hard to pick out the creature from the background of the burnt field, big as it was…
There! Hazy and indistinct through the mist and rain, he caught sight of its thin, black frame again as it stalked westward. The drums were very loud now. Loud and insufferable as always.
He gritted his teeth, and sighed, blinking the moisture from his tired eyes.
And then suddenly the field was alive with movement. Harmon saw a figure leap up out of the mist to his left, running fast. It was Foster, rifle in hand. Fool! He was heading straight for it. He was dead for sure.
But then Harmon was up and running before he knew what was happening. Behind him he heard the footsteps of his companions. This could be it. This could be the end. They couldn’t let him do it. They were in this together.
His heart thundered in his chest as he sped down the slope, covering the distance between him and Foster. The rhythm of the beating drums was almost deafening as the great, black thing reared up on its spindle-legs, flinging raindrops high into the air, and then struck forward.
A shot rang out, and the flash of the muzzle leapt up in the dimness, striking sparks from the body of the drum-beater as Harmon hit the dirt, rolling, breathless. The thing seemed to stagger back, thin and yet threatening—
—and then…then it was gone, gone into the mist and rain, and the drumming noise went utterly silent. Gone.
Foster yelled in rage and threw the rifle down, shaking his fist at the heavy, implacable sky.
And then he too fell. Fell to his knees, and Harmon watched him as he wept bitter tears into the dirt.
By Aimee Aderia:
Prison.
There are people in the world who go there. People who have committed atrocities against society are locked up there. In their own unique way, prisons unite many different kinds of people by making them see what they have in common. Murderers, thieves, and debtors find themselves tied together by one thing.
Guilt.
So why, may you ask, would make anyone want to flee to such a place?
You see, that's where my world and your world are different. You say, "Marry for love," and we say, "Get rid of the girl,". Highest bidder gets the prize.
The funny part is, though, that even though young girls are not valued as people, our honor, our integrity, our purity, is the basis of our family's honor.
And for those girls who are unfortunate enough to compromise their honor, it can mean death. It means the worst kind of death; murder at the hand of your own father. If the family reputation is marred, then the one wicked enough to do so is better off dead.
It doesn't matter if the girl is head over heels in love, and planning to elope with her sweetheart. It doesn't matter if she was caught holding hands with a boy from the town. It doesn't even matter if she's been raped.
Guilty, all the same.
And so the prisons here have been introduced to a new breed of inmate. The one's seeking refuge. The constant security and armed guards offer more security than any family could. The concrete walls and blazing floodlights blanket them instead of hand-woven blankets from home. Is that what your vision of a safe haven is?
A world where this has come to pass, where young women fleeing to prison to be safe from their vengeful families, is a sad world. It is a guilty world. Guilty of unspeakable wrongs and no person can possibly fathom what it will take to set things right.
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