by Jeff Neale
Pops shuffled over to Tony who was leaning against a utility pole in the middle of the exercise yard.
"Whatup, old man?" Tony said.
"You see em?" Pops said.
"Them wires a runnin from that box over by the jailhouse up to this pole and then out over that wall yonder," Pops said.
"Yeah, so?" Tony said.
"That there's the way Bubba gonna fly away from here come dark," Pops said.
"What the hell you talkin about you old hillbilly?" Tony said.
"I'm talkin bout what most people reckon happens when all that juice hit a man in that chair.
They say it burns up his life right then and there and that's the end of it, but it ain't so."
"You're trippin, man," Tony sneered. "Bubba's barbeque meat."
"Listen at me, when they cut on that juice it ain't gonna kill no Bubba. What it is gonna do is suck ole Bubba's ghost right up outta that chair, through them wires, an clean on over that wall to sweet freedom," Pops said.
"You're so full of shit," Tony said, pointing his finger in Pop's face. "They ought to fry your scrawny little ass right along with his."
At 8:30 pm, the corridor lights outside of Pop's cell flickered briefly.
"Fly, Bubba, fly." he whispered.
[Jeff Neale is the author of several short stories, many of which can be found on his blog, The Write Thing. His short story "The Question of Laura" was selected for publication in the July 2006 inaugural issue of The Picolata Review. His hobbies include reading, golf, and music.]