THE HARDEST: A LIL DISCIPLINE

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

A son's bad deeds cause his dictator daddy to take extreme measures.

For a wayward son a father would teach a lesson. For murder Saddam burnt all his elder son’s car collection. This dad will do one better. The son chills at a party, some of the guests suddenly flash guns…moments after the woman round his arm reached for her skirt and poked a CM9 in his face. 

 

Next arrives at an airfield that night. In a hanger he sleeps.

 

Try harder.

 

It is asked of him sit in a steel tub of ice water. Kept cold every so often by ice poured in. As his naked ass chilled, he somehow contemplated daddy planted his people in his own party and just as import, what brought him chilled naked in a bucket like a frozen chicken. 

 

He’d dangled someone from a flying chopper mid-air. No joke.

 

Caught not a moment’s rest throughout the night. Daddy’s tough love. 

 

Twilight morning he has something brought him and advised wear it. Pleas are on deaf ears. Next escorted to a jet. Nope, the executive one was reserved for the disciplined. A fighter jet.

Strapped into the back seat it takes off. Well in eyesight close to the ground, the nimble craft twisted and turned per pilot input over the air field. He perceived an invisible pressure all on his body. The chill was not as bad – comparative speaking. The pressure built and rescinded as the jet twists and turns.

 

Jets undergo G FORCES or rather subjects one unlucky passenger. Your body weight rises. For instance your head weighing twenty pounds would triple.

 

His blood rushed from head to the extremities, had trouble staying conscious, his body weighed a ton, his head weighed just as much it seemed, had trouble keeping it upright, couldn’t move as he wanted, like a crushing python.

 

The sensation continuously altered in strength and duration with scary rapidity. Outside the glass cockpit ground and sky tilted back and forth, spun every which way.  

 

Wouldn’t, couldn’t stay in. Rose from stomach to chest to tongue. Had the taste of bile.

 

His vomit a sick eruption through the mouth.

 

He didn’t think to beg, like he had the power to stop it. On and on the erratic flight path went. He eyes would turn black moments at a time before vison came back with lighter G forces. His suffering mind made vague note of something in front him – a mini camera. His uh roller coaster broadcast to citizens.

 

State dictators be like Moses and the splitting earth, gotta act with examples.  


Submitted: March 09, 2019

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hullabaloo22

You certainly brought that torturous flight to life, dreamscriber.

Sun, March 10th, 2019 8:00pm

Author
Reply

Writing serves the reader by artful descriptions.

Sun, March 10th, 2019 1:48pm

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