14:58:12.
Barabbas yawned. Nap time.
17:43:17.
Barabbas stretched his arms high over his head, his legs as far out in front of him as they could go. He walked to the beverage cart, his stomach rumbling with hunger pangs. He took a beer, opened it, and sipped long from the bottle. The flavor was rich, yeasty, and the liquid was strong and thick. He quickly finished the contents, grabbed two more, and sat on the floor. He tilted his head back, savoring the drink, his forearm propped on his knees in front of him.
23:00:00.
The door to the room opened suddenly. Barabbas jerked awake, his limbs flailing from their splay on the cold floor, beer bottles strewn around him rattling from the assault. When they settled, he saw whatshisname—Klein-Hoffer … in the doorway, looking impatiently down at him.
He huffed. Freaking people freaking sighing at me all the time. Barabbas mocked the man with a hefty sigh of his own. “Please tidy yourself, Mr. Meriwether. It’s now Day Seven and you’re about to go on the air again.”
The door slammed as Klein-Hoffer left. Barabbas stood slowly, using the table to help his cramped, slightly hungover body rise to a mostly standing position. If needing the tabletop for support was still considered standing.
He made an effort to even out the creases in his khakis, used his shirt cuff to try and buff his loafers a bit, and ran his fingers through his hair. He gave a small burp, shook his head, and, when the knock came on the door with Klein-Hoffer peeking in, Barabbas said, “Yeah, I’m ready. Where to?”
“Come with me,” Klein-Hoffer said, grasping Barabbas not-so-gently by the upper arm and pulling him along the narrow hallway.
“Well, folks,” Klein-Hoffer boomed into the mic and out television speakers worldwide, “seems our judges have made their decision.”
Canned applause followed the announcement and some home viewers joined in, unable to contain their excitement for resolution of this particularly interesting season of Condemned. Individually, they’d done their part: they’d called, Twexted, InstaChattered, and more, weighing in on the outcome, but it was always so hard to know which way the votes would go. Some even had conspiracy theories about whether The Politicos actually went with the votes from The Masses, as they were supposed to; some figured that The Politicos received more than “consultation” from the producers, which was all that was indicated by the show’s disclaimer text.
“Can you believe it? Another fast-paced, gripping season of Condemned will come to a close in just moments.” Klein-Hoffer looked back and forth, as if about to share a secret with the audience (except there was no live audience). “Shall we bring our two contestants out?” The nonexistent audience members emitted uproariously enthusiastic applause and cheers. “Alright! Let’s bring them out!”
Screens split immediately as the two men emerged from opposite sides of the backstage area, able to see each other for the first time. Each displayed his own unique reaction to the sight of the other and, while the audience could see the shift in both of their expressions, it was difficult to guesstimate what they might be feeling or thinking at that moment.
“Hey, fellas, let me just say, on behalf of all the world, how delighted we have all been to have you both as our Season 33 contestants. We’ve been just outright lucky to watch you two over the past week. But, as you at home know all too well, all good things must come to an end.” He paused, letting that phrase linger in the air. “So let’s see whose end has come, shall we?” He turned to his left, looking off stage to the crew.
“Bring out the FavorMeter, please.” Moments later, they each gave a small jump as the show launched into nondiegetic music, a particularly tense piece by Bartók—to those watching this final broadcast, the music could have been in their very homes, the string instruments sounded so close. On their respective sides of the screen, each man was escorted to a massive scale brought out onto the stage. They were directed to each stand on a weighing platform and, when they had, the platforms slowly found an artificial equilibrium to portray the contestants as evenly weighted. The music ceased.
Klein-Hoffer looked back at his audience, eyes sparkling with anticipation, “What do you say, then, world? How do The Masses judge these men?” One contestant closed his eyes while the other stared resolutely ahead as they physically felt the scale begin to adjust itself, creeping upward for one, and sinking downward to the other. The producers were no fools—they shot the scene in a way that made it impossible for those at home to predict which man was moving in which direction until the motion completed and they saw Klein-Hoffer’s feet pause in front of a worn pair of loafers. “Barabbas, it seems we have one final challenge for you.” He looked up at the anxious teenager. “It seems you’re the contestant who has prevailed as the favorite of The Masses. What do you have to say?”
The contestant’s eyebrows drew together, not quite sure of what to say next. “I … I won?”
Klein-Hoffer whapped Barabbas on the back, laughing for the audience, “In a matter of speaking, I suppose you did, son. But,” he paused again for effect, “First thing’s first.” He raised his empty hand to his chin, as if trying to work through a complex calculus problem. “You seem a generally good-natured man. If you knew, if you were absolutely certain, that you could switch places with your fellow contestant here and, as a result, live a truly blessed, an outright heavenly existence—forever … would you give up your place as the favorite of The Masses, as the Chosen One of the The Politicos?” Again, he paused. “You do know that, as the favorite, you will have unparalleled amounts of freedom for the rest of your life, don’t you? Money, security … companionship … all at the,” he made a quick motion with his hand, “snap of a finger?”
Everyone, even Klein-Hoffer himself, held their breath in anticipation of Barabbas’s response—one never knew just how this part would play out, but it was always thrilling, whichever way it went.
Barabbas craned his neck to look at his rival contestant, worry evident on his face. “What should I do?” he asked. “That sounds like a good deal to you right? The heavenly stuff?” The man in sandals met his eyes and Barabbas thought perhaps he saw confidence in them. Barabbas looked back at Klein-Hoffer. “Um … I think … I, I’d like to keep my position, Mr. Klein-Hoffer. Is … Is that okay? To want freedom? I mean, the other guy … you said he still gets a good life, right?”
His host laughed hysterically, even a bit manically, “Is it ‘okay’?” He clapped Barabbas on the shoulder. “Of course it’s okay, boy! You’re ‘The Chosen One’, the favorite of The Masses! The world is your oyster, seize it!”
Klein-Hoffer turned to the audience, his arm around Barabbas’s shoulder, squeezing him closer in a performance of camaraderie, “Folks at home—you’ve watched, you’ve voted and, in this past half hour, you’ve bitten your nails to the quick waiting to see what’s next for our contestants.” He grinned in Barabbas’s direction, even ruffling his hair a bit, as an older brother would do. “Boy, oh boy, are you gonna live the sweet life, Barabbas!”
Slowly, the camera angle shifted. Eventually, the viewers could see the other contestant in the background over Klein-Hoffer’s shoulder. The host was front and center, his face now somber, despite the strangely peppy doot-doot-do-doooo, doot-doot-do-doooo music playing on set. “My dear viewers, the cookie has crumbled. Season 33 of Condemned comes to a close with the selection of our Chosen One, Barabbas, as your favorite. But don’t leave your seats just yet … ” He lured the viewers closer to their sets, and his face burst into a smile and his voice, to their relief, finally matched the soundtrack.
“Next up: The Sentence! Our runner up here will be executed and you’ll be privy to each … and every … little detail.” Becoming even more animated, Klein-Hoffer sounded like a circus barker now, almost scary in his enthusiasm, “You’ve seen lethal injections … You’ve seen hangings, electrocutions … heck, you’ve even seen flayings, elephant crushings, and the Blood Eagle.” His
eyes flared with his own exhilaration, “But you’ve never seen a crucifixion. So, hold tight to your seat cushions, friends—you’re in for an extraordinary 33rd The Sentence special … after this word from our sponsors!”
UNWANTED
Lora Palmer
GENESIS 29:16-21, KING JAMES VERSION
16 And Laban had two daughters: the name of the elder was Leah, and the name of the younger was Rachel.
17 Leah was tender eyed; but Rachel was beautiful and well favoured.
18 And Jacob loved Rachel; and said, I will serve thee seven years for Rachel thy younger daughter.
19 And Laban said, It is better that I give her to thee, than that I should give her to another man: abide with me.
20 And Jacob served seven years for Rachel; and they seemed unto him but a few days, for the love he had to her.
UNWANTED
Lora PalmeR
Song and laughter fill the air. Hidden beneath a veil that covers me from head to foot, I steal a peek through my window. Only by my face does the veil contain sheer material so that I may see in the evening sunlight that glows golden against everything below. Trees cast long shadows on the lawn, where people congregate in groups of five or six, chatting, smiling, and lounging.
Children run to and fro among the groups, delivering parcels and messages. Some I recognize, like little Shara and Ephraim, who often sit by my side on grass dotted with mandrake and lilies of the valley, listening to me spin tales before temple as I weave purple and white flowers into garlands. Servants arrive with loads of fruits and vegetables, skins of milk, jars of water, poultry and game, and wine. Somewhere, I’m sure the lambs are being prepared as well—poor, sweet lambs I tended from infancy after their mother died. Father would spare no expense for me, his eldest daughter, and I couldn’t beg him to scale down his plans. After all, as the head tribesman, he must always keep up appearances, even though everyone knows my sister Rachel is his favorite. The entire community, it seems, has gathered in joyful anticipation of the great feast.
My wedding feast.
The thought fills me up until I could glow like those rays of sunlight. Most girls are forced to marry whomever their father chooses, but I refused to leave it to chance. God must have heard and answered my tearful prayers to escape the marriage my father originally planned for me. Today, on this glorious March Wednesday, I marry a man I can love—not that murderer, that hunter, Esau, the elder twin brother of my sister’s betrothed, Jacob. I’ve known Jacob for seven years now, the number of years he has worked for my father. Esau I know only by his sordid reputation.
When I spoke to my father of my desire for a God-fearing, kind man such as Jacob and of how, as the eldest sister, I should marry first, Father jumped at the chance to make it happen in his own way. He promised I would not have to marry Esau, and those words came as the sweetest honey.
Who has Father chosen to marry me, the daughter with the weak eyesight, the daughter who lacks the beauty and charm of her sister? I know who I hope he has chosen.
Perhaps I’ve made a huge mistake in taking this opportunity, in leveraging my status as elder sister. Father might not pick the young man I’d choose for myself if I could. Yet, there comes a certain sense of empowerment from taking destiny into one’s own hands, a boldness normally reserved for men.
In the next room, my sister sobs into her pillow, heartrending sobs that shatter my fragile bubble of joy.
My handmaid bustles into the room, her plump cheeks flushed and rust-red curls damp with perspiration. Her thin lips purse into a frown, no doubt at the thought of a handsome young man marrying someone like me. As if I haven’t caught her gossiping about that with the other servants every single day for the past two weeks. “Miss Leah, haven’t you bathed yet? Your father will come for you soon.”
“Not yet, Zilpah,” I admit, heat flushing my cheeks. “I waited for you. I’d ask where you’ve been, but I’m sure you’ve had much to take care of today.”
She harrumphs and ushers me to the bath, helping me undress. Spring air chills my skin, prickling the flesh into goose pimples. I flex my toes against the cold mosaic tile beneath my bare feet. “That’s true enough. I was beginning to think the preparations would never get finished.”
“And Rachel? Has she eaten anything today? Maybe I should go talk with her before I get ready—” The moment I ask the question, I can tell by the tightening in Zilpah’s jaw that the answer is no.
“I’m sorry, miss,” she replies with the shake of her head. “She won’t eat, and she won’t speak to you.”
I heave a heavy sigh and sink down into the water, letting its warmth soothe me. “Why not? Honestly, she acts like a selfish child, throwing a tantrum because she must wait a little longer for her wedding feast with Jacob. She always gets her way, and it must gall her that she hasn’t this time. I know she and Jacob love each other beyond all reason, and they’ve already waited seven years for this. Still, it’s only right that I marry first.”
Zilpah scoffs, a harsh, grating sound. “You should not speak so ill of your sister, Miss, without knowing the cause of her grief.”
Her chide cuts through my silly moment of arrogance, and I gasp in understanding. “On this, my wedding night, Rachel’s relationship with Jacob has ended?” I speak the words, seeking confirmation even as I beg them not to be true.
“Yes, miss, it has.”
No wonder Rachel forbade me to visit her room. I’d only remind her of what she’s lost. “Oh,” I finally manage, my voice a tiny whisper. I long to know what exactly happened, long to soothe her, but staying away serves as the best comfort I can give now.
“Yes, oh. Now, try to put it out of your mind, dear, and enjoy your night.”
Hmm. The way she says that makes it seem as if she suspects this night may hold my last opportunity for happiness. Maybe she has a point. My husband might take one look at me in morning’s light and decide he doesn’t want me, and it will make for a miserable marriage.
No. I can’t think like that. I must trust father’s judgment in choosing a good match for me.
Zilpah massages perfumed water into my scalp and works it through my hair, her deft ministrations easing tense muscles in my neck, back, and shoulders. Clean and sweet-scented, I emerge from the tub, and she helps me dry my hair and skin. My sister’s handmaid, tall and slender Bilhah, arrives with a crown of myrtle woven into a wreath, a silver hair ornament I will wear across my forehead, and a carved wooden box. With graceful, elegant movements Zilpah can’t hope to match, Bilhah sets the wooden box on my long, side table next to the towels.
“Go ahead,” she says when she catches me staring at the box in curiosity and wonder, “Open it.”
Still wrapped in my towel, I do, and I gasp. Inside I find silver bracelets that glitter with vibrant-hued gemstones and a delicate pendant to match—gifts from my bridegroom. I lift the jewels from their box and hold them up to the last rays of the setting sun, where they glint like fire. “Oh,” I breathe. “They’re gorgeous.”
“Yes, yes,” Zilpah agrees. Her chuckle snaps me out of my entranced state, and I blink in sudden awareness of her presence. “Now, let’s get you dressed. You don’t want to keep your bridegroom waiting because you couldn’t tear yourself away from his precious gifts, now do you?”
“No, of course not,” I reply. A small smile plays on my lips, and heat warms my cheeks.
Once I shed my towel, Zilpah and Bilhah help me into my girdle, the attire that all brides wear. Then, together, the handmaids lift my wedding gown from its place on the bed and ease it over my body, starting with my arms and head. The fabric of pure white embroidery falls soft against my skin, finer than anything I’ve worn before. I breathe in deep the scents of myrrh, aloe, and cassia that swirl in the air around my garments. Then, once I’m bedecked with my new jewels, they step back and survey their handiwork.
“Oh, Miss,” Zilpah exclaims, clutching her heart. “You’re lovely.”<
br />
“Truly?” I ask, lips parting in wonder. Nobody has ever used that adjective to describe me, and I hesitate to believe.
“Check for yourself.” With a smile, Zilpah retrieves a polished bronze mirror from the table, where it rested next to the wooden box, and holds it up so I can inspect myself. The metal-framed, oval-shaped mirror, about the size of a hand, reflects the face of a girl I do not recognize.
My hair, usually twisted up in plain braids, shines bright and falls in gentle waves to my waist. The waves of chestnut, dressed with silver across my forehead, accentuate my high cheekbones yet soften the sharp angles of my teardrop face. Wide, pale blue eyes appear lit from within by an intensity they’ve never held before. White embroidery glows against my skin, covering and somehow correcting every flaw.
“I’m a bride,” I whisper, awed, and blink back sudden tears as this truth hits me. Tonight, I am a bride—and I am beautiful.
A knock at my bedroom door signals the end of our time of preparation. Zilpah and Bilhah place the heavy betrothal veil over me and crown me with the myrtle wreath before allowing my father to enter.
Father leads me out to the tent in silence, where the man I will marry waits. Butterflies of hope, of anticipation, of nervousness, flutter in my stomach the entire way there. Inside, a single candle stands on the floor beside our petal-strewn marriage bed. In the dim surroundings, I can make out a tall, muscular figure, with strong hands and long fingers. A good choice, I think. My father places my hand in this man’s, giving me to him. Father departs the tent, a shrewd smirk on his lips, leaving me with a man I do not know.
In the Beginning (Anthology) Page 17
