"The chocolate moonpie was a let down."

Again, the challenge is to write a short story in an hour using someone else's sentence somewhere in the narrative. This one took 47 minutes to write and the sentence was, "The chocolate moonpie was a let down."

There was a decency to the system even if Allen had rarely done the decent thing his entire damn life. Sure, there were moments during childhood when without being asked, he’d hug his mom or feed the dog, but those were decent actions outside the age of true discretion. As he grew older and understood the consequences of his actions, doing the decent thing and doing the thing that would benefit him were not so much Venn diagram comparisons, but two separate circles.

But the system was decent, not good, or just, or right, but decent at least. It was decent enough to provide Allen with a last meal. As a lifelong diabetic, Allen had been scrupulous with his diet, in the same way he had been scrupulous with his murders. Everything was timed, regimented, and precise.

He probably would have gone on like this, eating his carefully calibrated diet and executing his carefully calibrated murders were it not for one of his victims getting away. He had been driving away from the victim’s house at exactly 2:21 A.M. His exit had been timed to hit every green light. What he hadn’t counted on was a drunk driver smashing into his van. The rear door popped open and out spilled a body mummified in duct-tape.

The investigation was sloppy; Allen disliked that for professional reasons, but it didn’t take a whole lot of work to piece together that Allen had been behind a dozen or so disappearances in the past five years. The trial was swift, and the execution a forgone conclusion.

Allen spent most of his days thinking not about reprieves or remorse or the afterlife, but what he was going to eat for his last meal. He was finally completely free of consequences, something only a death sentence could give him. For him, a perfect murder.

The idea for his last meal was absurd, but satisfied him in more than benign way. In outside world, chocolate moonpies were sugary treats used to placate children, but in prison, moonpies were currency. Sexual favors, weapons, and assaults could all be traded in the moonpie market. Allen had a number of them stashed away in his bunk for all three purposes. He had never eaten one of course, had rarely eaten anything with concentrated sugar levels at all, but as a last meal request, it seemed fitting.

The day of his execution came like any other day. The sun didn’t exactly rise, but the automated lights came up. The night before he had eaten his last meal and had slept exactly 7.5 hours as he had done for the last 32 years. Not even death breathing down his collar could deviate habit and biology. As Allen walked into the execution chamber, he could see a packed theater for his final performance. Most of the faces were stony gargoyles, but a few of them were weeping rain.

The warden walked over to Allen, and asked if he had any last words. These people had come for closure and who was Allen not to oblige them this one last request?

Standing up straight, hands held together in mock prayer from the handcuffs that bolted his arms and feet together, Allen turned to address the crowd. They leaned forward, clenched their jaws and waited for the murderer of their love, of their hope, of their reason to breathe to say his final words.

Allen cleared his throat, smiled and said, "The chocolate moonpie was a let down."

"Does that count as a sentence"

This is another example of a one hour story challenge where I try to write a story in an hour using a sentence suggested by another person. The sentence was, "Does that count as a sentence" as suggested by a friend. The story is a bit rough, but such are the constraints of time.

“Does that count as a sentence?” she asked me. I was hunched over a notebook, and up until a moment ago had been furiously diagramming sentence trees in French. The girl with the chocolate braids wasn’t exactly sitting in the chair across from me. Perching would be a more accurate description.

“Come again?” I said.

She didn’t repeat herself, choosing instead to reach across the table to take away my paper. She leaned on an elbow, picked up my pen and added a few marks of her own. After a moment she stuck the pen behind her ear and said, “Yeah, I was right. I couldn’t be sure reading your paper upside down, but number three is definitely not a sentence.”

“I suppose you speak French then.”

“No, but my mom’s the professor, and I run all the copies for her. You stare at an answer key long enough and you’re bound to memorize something, even if you don’t understand it.”

Well that explained a few things. Not only was she a townie, but a professor’s kid. Her presumption to correct my work, the disregard for personal space, and the faint smell of Amish soap all corroborated what she said. Not like I had any reason to doubt her. She was a deadringer for Dr. Shep, younger obviously, and without the greying hair or glasses. Still, I liked her brazen approach, and if it helped me do better in French, then who was I to complain?

From time to time during the semester, I’d see Dr. Shep’s daughter in the dorm. I wasn’t even sure if she lived on my floor, let alone the dorm itself, but I never saw her anywhere else on campus. Our conversations deviated more and more from homework to  music, life, and philosophy. Long after quiet hours had gone into effect, we’d be chatting at the study table.

As the semester drew to a close, I began seeing less and less of her, until finally three weeks went by without a sighting. I was concerned. Nobody else seemed to know who she was and when I tried looking her up on Facebook, I couldn’t find a profile. Finally, I decided to ask Dr. Shep.
I had just finished my final and handed my paper in when I asked a question I hoped wasn’t too loaded with intention. “So, where’s your daughter been? I haven’t seen her around recently.”
Dr. Shep’s eyes, narrowed. She took my paper and placed it in a separate pile away from the other tests, as if my responses were diseased and could infect the whole class.
“If you’re talking about Jenny, she’s been at home.”
“Oh,” I said lamely. “Is she sick?”
“No, but she is in high school and we caught her breaking curfew. Now, is there something I can help you with? Better yet, is there something you can help me with?”
I opened my mouth to explain, but nothing sensible came out. I sputtered a few words about her helping me with homework and I’m pretty sure I could hear an audible gnashing of the teeth when I mentioned she was in my dorm.
“That’ll be all, Mr. Jackson.”
The room suddenly felt small and cramped. I left holding my stomach and mumbling apologies, in English, not French.
When grades finally came out, I saw that Dr. Shep had given me a D. It’s not the grade I earned, but somehow, it still felt like the grade I deserved.