cruel and unusual

A true story for Hallowe'en

It was 6:38am on August 6^th, 1890, as the prisoner entered the room, hands bound, between two prison guards. He was surprised how many had come to witness his death.

He had been calm since being woken an hour and a half earlier, offering no resistance. He had dressed himself quickly, formally, in his Sunday best suit, white shirt and tie. They brought him breakfast, which he ate heartily, and a priest, who said a prayer. A 'trusty' came and shaved his head. The dark corridors and cells of New York State's Auburn Prison were cool and stale at this early hour, as he was taken to the execution chamber, but with a sense of the stifling heat to come.

Records show there were seventeen present, including the Warden, Charles Durston. William Kemmler faced him and Durston nodded, a little tense. He knew this day would go down in history. Kemmler remained calm, almost serene. He looked at the chair in the centre of the room.

"Gentlemen, I wish you all good luck. I believe I am going to a good place, and I am ready to go," he said, and without prompting, sat down.

One of the guards made him stand again and cut a hole in his suit near the base of his spine, to attach one of the electrodes. The prisoner sat again and the metal restraint was attached to his head.

He almost smiled. "Take it easy and do it properly, I'm in no hurry." His arms and legs were strapped to the chair, a cloth hood was placed over his head.

"Goodbye, William," said Durston, as he signalled the electrician to throw the switch.

William Kemmler was a second generation native of Philadelphia, a slender youth with dark brown hair. Illiterate, with little schooling, he worked at first in his father's butcher shop. He grew up speaking both English and German, the language of his parents. They were both known to be alcoholics: his father died after a drunken brawl and his mother from liver failure. Kemmler.

After his parents died and the business was lost, he became a peddlar, and earned enough money to buy a horse and cart after moving to Buffalo, where he sold vegetables off the back of the cart. But he had also begun to turn to drink and – with the nickname "Philadelphia Billy" – soon developed a reputation for binge drinking and stupid drunken episodes, one of which led to the destruction of his cart and his stock. He took up with Tillie Ziegler, and they started to live together. At the trial she would be refeerred to as his common law wife.

On March 29, 1888, he was recovering from a drinking binge the night before when he became enraged with Tiller. He accused her of stealing from him and preparing to run away with a friend of his. When the argument reached a peak, Kemmler calmly grabbed a hatchet, and returned to the house. He struck Tillie repeatedly, killing her. He then went to a neighbor's house and announced he had just murdered his girlfriend. Every report describes him as 'calm', 'rational', 'unemotional' – a classic sociopath.

The trial proceeded quickly. He was convicted of first-degree murder on May 10. Three days later he was sentenced to death. Two months before the murder, New York introduced a new execution law which replaced hanging. The new method was death by the wonderful new force then becoming known for the first time: death by electricity. Soon after the new law was enacted, an electric chair – a device invented a few years earlier by a Buffalo dentist – was installed at the Auburn state prison, and this is where Kemmler was consigned after pleading guilty. He would become the first person in the world to be killed by electric chair.

An appeal was launched, not by Kemmler, but by the infant electricity industry, who obviously thought this was bad PR. The appeal claimed that the electric chair violated the Eighth Amendment's prohibition of cruel and unusual punishment. The appeal went all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court, who ruled electrocution was not a cruel and unusual punishment.

So the execution proceeded. The generator was charged to one thousand volts, which was assumed to be adequate to induce quick unconsciousness and cardiac arrest. The chair had already been thoroughly tested; a horse had been successfully electrocuted the day before. The charge was fed to Kemmler for 17 seconds. The power was turned off, one of the two doctors present stepped forward and Kemmler was declared dead.

However, with an audible gasp, witnesses suddenly saw Kemmler's chest rise and fall – he was still breathing. Both doctors confirmed Kemmler was still alive, and one of them reportedly called out, "Have the current turned on again, quick—no delay,” the shaking of his voice betraying shock and horror, in stark contrast to Kemmler's earlier calm.

It took some time to recharge the generator, this time up to 2,000 volts. Blood vessels under the skin ruptured and acording to the New York Times,

"an awful odor began to permeate the death chamber, and then, as though to cap the climax of this fearful sight, it was seen that the hair under and around the electrode on the head and the flesh under and around the electrode at the base of the spine was singeing. The stench was unbearable."

Several witnesses panicked and unsuccessfully tried to escape from the room, but the room had been locked. In all, the entire execution took eight minutes until death was finally achieved. Papers across the country outdid each other with sensational headlines and stories. A reporter who witnessed it described it as "an awful spectacle, far worse than hanging." The electrician reportedly commented: "They would have done better using an axe.” Yet death by electric chair was not and still to this day in some states is not regarded as cruel and unusual.

last judgment

What I did on my hollidays

On my hollidays we went to Bournmouth. We go to Bournmouth every year fro our hollidays. It is my nan's house and we stay in it. I like when it is sunny we go on the bach and I make a big sand castle and I dig a big deep mott so when the sea come in it fill up the mott. Then no one can get in the castle not even a dragon cos dragon cant fly over water. When you go back next day the castle is gone cos the sea come in and wash it away, only the sea and me can beat the castle.

I like my nan cos she give me sweets and tell my mummy dont nag the boy. She makes nice food like fuit pie with rubarb in it wot she grows in her garden and custard also nice sausages not the ones we get at home. On Fridays we get fish and chips from the chip shop over the road and I like it best of all.

I dont like when it rains all day and I get bored and we stay at Nans house and mumy gets mad if I say Im bored can we go to the pictures. Nan took me the pictures to see a picture called Wizerd of Oz it is bit scary about the witch but not about the little people and Dorothy and the funny people she meet like a scarecrow also a dog Toto. Dorothy goes home and live with her aunty whos nice like my nan I wish I lived with a aunty or nan not my mummy.

On Sundays we go to nans big church. We dont go to church at home. It is bit boring when the vicar makes a big speech it called a sermon but I like the singing. In the church is a big sign it says

Judge not, that ye be not judged. Matthew 7. 1.

It is from the Bible wot god said. I asked nan about it. I said I dont judge mummy but my mummy all ways judges me and say I am doing bad things so does god say she shouldnt do it? My nan says she is only trying to make me a good boy but you can go to far. So I said to mummy that god say she should not judge me and nan say you juge me to far but she got cross and sent me to bed and then she and nan had a row again. They all ways have a big row about me, I heard them over the balcony. Mumy said its all right for you, I have to bring him up alone all year, you can give him sweets and treats and he likes you. And nan say you need to give him space he is a boy let him breath. I do breath, mummy doesnt stop me breathing but she dont give me space.

I asked my nan will I go to hevan if I dont judge people and she say jesus say not to judge only god can judge and I say will mummy go to hell because she judges and my mummy slapped me. Then they had a row again and I was sent to bed early and I herd mummy crying.

So we did other things we went to Poole and saw the ships and the potery where they make the plates and you can see how they do it. I wanted to go on the boat round the harbour but mummy said its to expansive but the best bit was the beach and the sand castle and the fruit pie fish and chips and thats wot I did on my holliday.

* * *

Don't walk with your hands in your pockets; don't speak with your mouth full; finish your plate; sit up straight; always close the garden gate. This is how you brush your hair; this is what you ought to wear. It matches your eyes. You look good in blue. There, you look very smart. I don't care what the other boys wear, we're a respectable family. No, you can't have a fringe, it doesn't suit you, you have lovely eyebrows, I don't care if the other boys… No you can't have a bicycle, it's too dangerous round here, I don't care if all the other boys… Don't wolf it down, chew. Do your homework; wash your hands; go to bed, you need your beauty sleep. Button up your coat; and take your hands out of your pockets.

Why are you choosing those subjects? I thought you would be an accountant; or a solicitor. How will you make money out of that? Why are you wasting your allowance on that? Can I smell alcohol on your breath? Can I smell perfume? What is that smell? I thought you'd go to Oxford or Cambridge. I'm supporting you, you know. Why can't you get a decent summer job? If you'd studied law you could have got a – what do they call it? – articled clerk? – decent money anyway. Or a doctor. They make lots of money, and they are well respected. What is that noise? Well it sounds like noise to me – they all sound the same to me – and the hair! Is that where you get it from? Why don't you get your hair cut? If your father were alive… And sit up straight, you're always slouching. Don't you have anything decent to wear? You won't get a girl looking like that.

This would have killed your father if he wasn't dead already. You should go to a psychiatrist, psychologist, whatever it is they call it. I thought that girl in the flat was your girlfriend. She was very nice. Why don't you go out with her? It's all a phase you know. Don't you want to have children? I want to have grandchildren. You'll have no-one when you're old to look after you.

I thought you would be able to afford a better car than this. Well, they don't pay you enough then. What did I tell you, you should have gone in for accountancy. Do you still see that girl from when you were a student? Why not? She was nice. Don't say anything to Mrs Moore. I told her you're too busy to have a girfriend, with your job. And stand up straight. Why do you live in this terrible area? You could get a nice house with a garden and somewhere to park your car – a garage even – in a nice area.

I thought you would visit more often. I know it's a long way but I had to come back here to look after your nan. Well, I don't like him, and that's it. I can't have him staying here: Mrs Moore would… And I don't like the way he eats. And I thought at least you could have got with a nice doctor, or an accountant. What does he do anyway? I don't even know what that is! Why don't you come adown more – remember those wonderful times we used to have? You had a wonderful childhood, you know. We had great holidays in this house. Such a clever boy – what happened to you?

Are you still living in that house? Why? Isn't it time you moved somewhere decent? Well they don't pay you enough then. I thought you'd have your own company by now. When are you coming to see me? And is he still with you? Well, at least you haven't – you know – all that AIDS.

I always wanted a girl, you know. A daughter-in-law would have been nice, at least. I was always hoping for grandchildren. Well, at least you're happy. In your own way. I suppose he's – at least he's loyal. I'm comfortable in the sheltered housing – I like my own space now. You don't need to come down if you don't want to.

The church is smaller than I remembered it. I stand, with my hands in my pockets, looking across at the coffin. I look up at the plaque I remember from my childhood.

Judge not, that ye be not judged. Matthew 7. 1.

el acertijo

we were asked to produce a riddle.

See if you can guess the answer – and

how to get there.

My first is in genders that come in two kinds,

Take both and dissect them and what do you find?

Three quarters of one and a half of the other –

They both are the same from the father and mother:

And so having done that, just what do you gain?

This mini acrostic leaves evil in Spain.

My first was quite easy, I'm sure you agree.

So let's try my second: more complex, you'll see.

So, Daniel Day Lewis (2007)

Predicted a wound (it's the red stuff I reckon)

And Hugh Grant had many a nuptial heaven

When one is enough for part one of my second.

Part two is the home of a dominant widow:

Ms White, you could say, but the house is in Spain.

Part one and part two are both plays (get it, kiddo?)

Both written by whom? That's the clue you must gain.

Put my first and my second together and now

You're almost approaching the whole, I concede.

A mountainous island that's part of a province –

But even the province is not what I need.

In fact it's just one of a whole fifty-two

But what are they part of? I've already said it!

I was hoping by now that you already knew,

Because in the earlier stanzas you read it!

secateurs

I got some new secateurs yesterday
and it reminded me of a poem
I wrote for a competition
some time ago

   I snip and clip

And trim each tip

Of ivy, bamboo and furze.

   I prune the rose

As each shoot grows.

It’s such fun with my secateurs.

    I slit and chop

And lop and crop -

Such speed that the gadget blurs!

   I branches dissever

For ever and ever,

Thanks to my secateurs.

    I cut a dash!

I gash and slash

And prune, and I cleave the burrs;

   I thin and cut -

No if nor but -

Just a flick of my secateurs.

    I trim and slice

Not once, but twice -

As Monty Don much prefers.

   I lop and sunder

The growth that’s under,

Lash out with my secateurs.

    Once more for luck

I nip and tuck

And no single plant demurs.

   No errant leaf

Will cause me grief –

I attack with my secateurs.

But

    When I look back

I see a lack

Of green, and a thought occurs:

   There’s nix but sticks!

What awful tricks

Have been played by my secateurs.

 

welfare state

Write about events on

the day you were born...

 

Prime Minister Attlee sat in his club, drink in hand, contemplating the election. With a bare and falling majority he had called the election mainly because the King was worried about a change of government whilst he was away on his Commonwealth tour: which is a very negative motivation for an election. He still mourned the loss of Bevin, who would have put some backbone into the manifesto, without a doubt. His death had left him feeling depressed and alone as he watched his party descend into factionalism. The problem was they had little new to offer except more nationalisation, and the Tories had planted their tanks on Labour's lawn, promising to keep the NHS and the welfare state. Blood sweat and tears was all very well in war time, but now? War debts were still enormous and people were getting fed up of the continuing regime of rations: in fact the election last year had been all about rationing and the Tories were making impossible promises once again. Runners from Transport House occasionally brought him encouraging messages from local parties all around the country, but would that translate to seats? Well, any election is a gamble: we shall see what happens in two days' time.

A few hundred yards away, Churchill sat in his own club, harrumphing at the headlines in the Times. More soldiers killed in Malaya, and only a few weeks since Gurney, the High Commisssioner had been ambushed. Farouk threatening to kick the British governor out of Sudan, and more troops sent off to Suez to deal with the natives' strike. The Socialists were allowing the Empire to go to pot. They'd already lost India and Palestine. What next? The canvassing returns were looking good: he couldn't wait to get back in Government, though it would be nothing like the glory days of the War. However the bright new intake of MPs last year, most of whom had had a very successful war, gave him some hope that those traditional values that had made Britain great could be returned, and sanity restored, with a rolling back of some of the socialist excesses of the last few years.
Across London, housewives tuned in as they eked out the sugar and butter for today's evening meal. On the wireless that morning, the Home Service joined the Light Programme as usual for Music While You Work, then went its own way. Later, Listen with Mother was broadcast before mums could put their infants down for an afternoon nap as they tuned in to Woman's Hour. Desert Island Discs that evening featured Gerald Moore, who rivalled Benjamin Britten himself as an accomplished lieder accompanist.

One woman who wouldn't be listening in to the BBC's schedule that day was Pat, who was lying in, having successfully given birth to a bouncing boy at the New Row Maternity Hospital, Hampstead Heath. Ironically, the Heath would become a favorite playground for that baby many years later, in youth for nefarious, and later for perfectly innocent reasons. Husband Reg came to see the newborn after he finished work at the Coal Board offices, bringing the baby's older brother whom he'd picked up from his grandparents. The mysteries of chidbirth were a women's issue: he was glad it was all over before he arrived.

I wonder if Pat and Reg understood how they had benefited from the postwar Labour Government? This free hospital time and follow up care from the district nurses. A smart apartment in De La Warr Mansions in Little Venice, requisitioned by the council and allocated to demobbed service personnel. And a secure job in a newly nationalised industry. I wonder how they voted two days later? Did they vote Labour, contributing to the biggest vote for any party in history; or Conservative, who despite getting fewer votes, took 17 more seats and put Churchill and his successors back in power for thirteen years? If they voted at all, of course, with all the excitement.

je ne rejette rien

We were asked to write the rejection letter 

we would love to have received...

Dear You,

(I say 'You' to avoid using a name because lots of people are going to get this letter! Just kidding!) It's a worry isn't it? No really, Keith. (Can I call you Keith? Well, you don't really have any choice in the matter, do you? Keith it is.) Keith – what can I say?

And perhaps in asking that, I say everything.

I imagine you understand the publishing business by now, and have submitted your efforts to many other publishers and agents and competitions even though the rules clearly state... Well, why not? No-one's going to check are they? Unless you really get published in which case all the other publishers will sue you for breach of copyright which they obtained under clause 32 (b) on page sixteen of the terms and conditions when you submitted to them.

Or are you a first timer, submitting to us alone and waiting six months for an answer, while you fretted and agonised and awaited the dreaded feedback? In which case, refer to the previous paragraph.

So assuming you are an old hand, you will have received lots of bland rejections and no real feedback. It's horrible being rejected, isn't it? So this time things are different, Keith. Here is some genuine, professional feedback. Which is: that your submission is pretty impressive, actually. I mean: original idea, with a clear story arc, well defined, realistic characters and a really elegant twist in the final chapter that would make the reader gasp. That feels good, I hope, Keith! Positive feedback.

In fact, your work is as good as dozens of submissions we receive every week, here at Ferzackerley House. Ah yes, there's the rub, you see. We receive hundreds of submissions a week. In a year, thousands. Of course, there's a lot of dross from inarticulate fanboys and copyists and the plain illiterate. But there are surprisingly many that are good; original; brilliant – like yours in fact! When I started here it was a pleasure to read them and realise how much talent we have in this country. But then it starts to pall, Keith, it really does. So many and so few that can get published.

Because, the problem is, you're not a daytime TV 'personality' that had a book ghost-written by some poor hack like me. Or an already published famous writer of pot-boilers who can keep pumping out the same old crap and see it fly off the shelves. If your story had been about something that hit the right Zeitgeist buttons then you might have a chance. But otherwise, it's a pure lottery. Or even more to the point, you don't have the right connections to have your work put up forcefully in front of our esteemed Chairman for consideration. So you see, unless there's some hook to hang it on, some marketing ploy to make it attractive, it's not going to sell. (You're not J K Rowling trying another anonymous foray are you by any chance? That would work.)

Look: say we publish your work. Those that happened to pick up a copy in Waterstone's by accident might read the first page and be delighted by it and a few might even buy it. More likely, they'd smile and move on to the new pot-boiler by an author they came in for. So you see, you wouldn't have many buyers. One day you'd be in W H Smith and see a big pile on the 2 for £1 counter and feel depressed. Rejection again!

Is that really what you want, Keith? Of course not! Can I say that your CV is very positive! You've done amazing things with your life. I'm sure they have brought you great joy. And this writing thing – you say you love writing. Great! So write! Why do you go and want to then get published and all the anxiety that involves? All the time you've wasted printing out copies or emailing pdfs to obscure organisations you've never heard of, and worrying that they're just trying to steal your personal details. Or your plots. If you did by a miracle get published, think about all the time you'd have to spend going to boring literary festivals and endless wrist-aching book signings and meeting cynical journalists who haven't even read your book and just want material to make them look clever in their columns. All that wasted time when you could be enjoying yourself just writing. People do lots of things they just enjoy doing as an end in itself. Knitting, collecting china, appreciating art, hill walking, singing in a choir. Lots. None of them do it for fame or to make shed loads of money. They do it for the sheer pleasure they get out of it – so why can't you just write! You're good at it, you have my word.

Let me put it another way. Think of pop stars. Suddenly one becomes famous, goes platinum, and everyone wants to download their songs. They're racking up the numbers on spotify, they're appearing on Graham Norton and the One Show. Wow! Is it because they are the best singers? No. Mainly it's because they have the right look or meet what the record company thinks will tickle the fancy of the millennials or whoever they are marketing to. There's thousands of kids out there just as good, or better. It's a lottery, pure and simple. And they get fame and money and then what? Ripped off by their record companies and their accountants, no private life, drugs, tabloid exposures and ruin. And not much different for successful authors either. OK, not a perfect analogy. Authors don't get by on their looks. I mean, do they ever? But you get the idea.

So, yes, you could keep submitting your work to the likes of us and maybe one day you'll win the lottery. But what are the chances? And even if you succeed, is it worth it?

So I say, keep up the brilliant work, Keith. Enjoy what you do! Don't look back. But don't look forward either. It's not gonna happen and it's not that good even if it does. Write for fun, or do some more of those wonderful things on your CV.

Why am I telling you all this? Do I seem a little cynical? Well, to tell you the truth, I've had enough. This is a mug's game. Pretending to sift through all this fantastic work and selecting the best – when all we're really doing is printing some TOWIE yob's purported ravings or the work of the Chairman's floozie's niece (or is the niece the floozie?), while sending the rest off to landfill. And causing mass depression amongst good writers with rejection letters while we're at it. Time for me to hand in the blue pencil.

You're good – keep at it!

Regards

Olga de la Warr

Associate Director and Rejector-in-Chief

cc Sir H B Ferzackerley, Chairman

OfficeCirc@FerzackerleyHouse.com

great day for birthdays

The theme for this non-fiction challenge:
write somehting about birthdays.
Well, it was October 3rd so (with apologies to Ogden Nash) ...

It's a great day for birthdays, is October the third

Or at least that's what I've heard.

Gore Vidal the great patrician author, I see

Was born October three.

The stand-up comedian Greg Proops, I'm convinced

Was also born on the third inst.

And we should be knowin'

That so was Clive Owen.

Not to mention enough musicians to fill a double decker

Including the twister Chubby Checker,

P P Arnold and Eddie Cochran

And many another who got us rockin'.

If you prefer someone more cocky

How about rapper ASAP Rocky?

Then there's minimalist composer Steve Reich

(Whether or not minimalism is something you like).

Ex-head of the Commonwealth Sunny Ramphal

Had his birthday on this day an' all.

They say that Hwanung founded Korea when he came from heaven

On October the third BC 2457.

The Koreans believe it and I'm sure they're sincere:

So we say Happy Birthday Korea!

OK – I admit it: to say it's a great day for birthdays was rash.

There isn't a Shakespeare or an Einstein or even an Ogden Nash.

Let's just say, to all whom it concerns,

If your birthday is on October the third, Many Happy Returns!