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    No.29994 [Report] AS
    ▶
    "Who wants popcorn?" the father asked, rattling the half-full bag in his lap. The television buzzed softly in the corner, its screen flickering with the lottery logo—a stark black circle against a white background.

    The sixteen-year-old son reached over and grabbed a handful without looking. "They should just play the numbers already," he muttered, crunching loudly. His sisters were sprawled across the couch in various stages of boredom—the four-year-old stacking blocks on the carpet, the six-year-old braiding the ten-year-old's hair, the fourteen-year-old scrolling her phone with one hand, the other absently petting the cat in her lap.

    The mother leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "They always drag it out," she said. "Makes it feel important."

    A chime sounded from the television. The lottery logo dissolved into a grid of numbers, rapidly shuffling like cards in a dealer’s hands. The room went quiet, save for the crinkle of the popcorn bag and the faint hum of the refrigerator in the next room.

    The shuffling numbers froze. A single digit locked into place—9. Then another—2. The mother's breath hitched. The numbers kept coming, each one a hammer strike: 4. 7. 1. 0. The fourteen-year-old's phone clattered to the floor. The sequence matched hers exactly. The screen refreshed. Another set. 3. 8. 5. 6. The six-year-old's blocks toppled over as she whipped her head toward the TV. One by one, the numbers rolled out, each a perfect match for every family member. Even the four-year-old's, her tiny fingers still clutching a red block, her assigned digits flashing bright on the screen.

    Nobody moved. The cat, sensing the shift, leapt from the fourteen-year-old's lap and vanished down the hallway. The father crumpled the popcorn bag in his fist, the sound absurdly loud in the silence. "Well," he said, voice oddly steady. "That's never happened before." The ten-year-old burst into laughter—sharp, unhinged giggles that dissolved into hiccuping sobs. The mother pulled her close, stroking her hair with trembling fingers.

    They didn't speak much that night. The father made spaghetti, overcooking the noodles the way the kids liked them. The sixteen-year-old stacked the dishes afterward with unusual care, lining them up precisely in the sink. The four-year-old fell asleep at the table, her cheek smushed against a napkin. The mother carried her to bed, pausing to adjust the crooked blanket over her shoulders.

    Morning came. The sun was the same. The coffee tasted the same. The six-year-old spilled her juice, and for a wild moment, they all laughed—real, bright laughter—before remembering. The father pulled out a map, tracing the route to the nearest center with his fingertip. "Monday," he said. "We'll go Monday." The fourteen-year-old nodded, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. "More time to... you know." Nobody asked what she meant.

    The bus smelled like disinfectant and old leather, the kind of scent that made the sixteen-year-old press his forehead against the cool glass window just to escape it. His little sisters—four and six—played a quiet game of hand-clapping in the seat ahead, their small palms smacking together in perfect rhythm. *Patty cake, patty cake.* The ten-year-old had stopped laughing now. She sat very still beside their mother, fingers digging into the vinyl seat cushion hard enough to leave crescent moon indents.

    At the third stop, a woman with a grocery bag full of oranges boarded. She glanced at their family—seven people occupying four seats, the father standing stiffly by the exit pole—and her eyes widened slightly before she looked away. The fourteen-year-old noticed. She tugged her hoodie strings tight until the fabric puckered around her face like a drawstring bag closing.

    Nobody spoke when the automated voice announced *"Next stop: State Processing Center East."* The four-year-old abandoned her clapping game abruptly, twisting to stare at her mother. "Do they have snacks there?" she whispered. The mother's hands, which had been methodically smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt, froze mid-motion.

    Registration took place in a room with fluorescent lights that buzzed like trapped flies. The clerk—a man with a name tag reading *"Trevor"*—didn't look up as he slid seven forms across the counter. "Method selection on page two," he muttered, already reaching for the next family's paperwork. The father distributed the pens with hands that didn't shake. Not even once.

    The four-year-old pressed her pen tip hard against the paper, leaving a small ink blot beside the *GUNSHOT (INSTANT)* checkbox. "Like the rabbits," she announced solemnly. Last summer, they'd found a nest in the garden; the father had taken care of it quickly, quietly. The six-year-old nodded, copying their mother's precise X over *AXE DECAPITATION.* The ten-year-old traced the word *GARROTE* with her finger before marking it, her lips moving silently as she sounded out the unfamiliar syllables.

    The sixteen-year-old hesitated. His sister—fourteen, always quicker—had already selected *SHORT DROP HANGING* and was now examining her chipped nail polish with detached interest. He imagined the thrashing legs, the desperate kick of muscle memory, and suddenly understood why his father's pen had hovered there too. It wasn't about suffering. It was about leaving something behind—even if just the imprint of their heels against empty air.

    The door clicked open with a sound like a bone snapping. Inside, the undressing room was colder than the registration area—white tiles, white walls, white benches lining the perimeter. A single surveillance camera blinked red in the corner. The fourteen-year-old was the first to step through, her socked feet making no sound as she crossed the threshold. She didn't look back when the door hissed shut behind them.

    "Clothing and personal items in the bins," a recorded voice announced pleasantly. "Please remove all jewelry, including wedding bands." The mother's hands flew to her ring—thin gold, worn smooth over eighteen years—but she didn't protest. The father helped the four-year-old with her overall buckles, fingers moving methodically through the familiar routine of bedtime undressing. The six-year-old kicked off her light-up sneakers, and for one absurd moment, the room flashed with tiny strobes of pink and blue.

    The sixteen-year-old peeled off his hoodie last, revealing the acne scattered across his shoulders like constellations he'd never named. His sister—fourteen, always quicker—was already naked, sitting primly on a bench with her knees pressed together. She'd stopped twisting her hair hours ago. The ten-year-old folded her dress into a perfect square, smoothing the fabric with palms that left damp fingerprints on the cotton. When she caught her brother looking, she grinned suddenly, wildly. "No more laundry," she whispered.

    Somewhere down the row of benches, another family's toddler was crying—great, gulping sobs that echoed off the tiles. The four-year-old tilted her head, considering the sound, then reached for her mother's bare thigh. "Will it hurt?" she asked, not about the gunshot. The mother's mouth opened, closed. The father answered instead, kneeling in front of his daughters with his work-roughened hands spread wide. "Only for a second," he lied beautifully.

    The door to the waiting area didn’t swing—it sighed open, like the last breath leaving a body. Inside, the air smelled faintly of bleach and something metallic beneath it. Rows of plastic chairs bolted to the floor faced a digital display board flickering with numbers and letters that meant nothing yet to the fourteen-year-old, though she knew they would soon. Other families sat clustered together, their naked bodies forming odd geometries of vulnerability—a grandfather with his arms around two teenagers, a woman breastfeeding an infant who wouldn’t live to wean. The sixteen-year-old counted seventeen people before his gaze snagged on a boy his age pressing his palms hard against his closed eyelids, as if he could push the reality out through his tear ducts.

    They chose seats near the back. The four-year-old climbed onto her mother’s lap, her small feet dangling without their usual restless kicking. Across the aisle, a man with a scar across his chest was humming a lullaby to his daughter—three, maybe four years old—who kept asking when they’d go home. The sixteen-year-old watched the father’s throat work as he swallowed each lie: *Soon, sweetheart. After this next part.*

    The display board buzzed, then updated. Three numbers appeared in green. A family near the front stood—father, mother, a girl no older than eight—all moving toward the far door with the grim synchronization of dancers in a nightmare ballet. The eight-year-old was holding her father’s hand, swinging their clasped arms lightly, as if they were heading to a playground. The door swallowed them whole. Nobody clapped when the display board flashed *PROCESSING COMPLETE* ninety seconds later.

    The numbers blinked green—their numbers—and for one suspended second, the fourteen-year-old thought absurdly of a teacher calling attendance. Then her father stood, his naked body already moving toward the door like his muscles remembered the path before his mind did. The others followed, the four-year-old’s small hand gripping the sixteen-year-old’s pinky finger. The execution chamber smelled like copper and ammonia, the scent clinging to the back of the fourteen-year-old’s throat as she counted the stations: a metal grate stained rust-brown, a wooden block with deep grooves, a chair with leather straps, three nooses dangling like question marks.

    The four-year-old went first because she asked to. "Like the rabbits," she reminded them, kneeling on the grate without being told. The executioner—a woman with a name tag reading *"Lynn"*—adjusted the pistol’s angle with a tenderness that made the mother gasp. The gunshot cracked. One moment the four-year-old was there, the next she wasn’t, her small body slumping forward onto the grate where a drainage slit swallowed the red in gulps. The mother made a sound like a deflating balloon and moved toward the block before the father could stop her.

    The axe was heavier than the mother expected. She’d thought it would be swift—like in the old paintings—but the first blow only bit halfway through her neck. Her mouth opened in a silent O as her hands flew up, fingers twitching toward the wound before the second strike finished the job. Her head rolled twice before settling face-up, eyes still blinking, lips still moving soundlessly for three terrible seconds. The six-year-old didn’t cry. She placed her chin where her mother’s had been, her braids brushing the wet wood. One clean swing. Her body jerked once, then stilled.

    The ten-year-old had practiced garrotes in history class. She knew it was supposed to be quick—a Spanish Inquisition myth—but the strap pinched her windpipe just wrong. Her feet drummed against the chair legs as the executioner turned the wheel methodically, his brows furrowed in concentration like he was tuning a violin. The fourteen-year-old counted the kicks: 287 before her sister’s toes curled inward and stopped.

    The father’s noose fit snug behind his left ear. He exhaled sharply when the trapdoor dropped—not from pain but surprise at how *ordinary* it felt, like missing a step in the dark. His erection surprised him too, rising stubbornly as his legs cycled through phantom staircases. The orgasm hit just as his vision tunneled, his body seizing in a way that made the sixteen-year-old son look away. Urine arced in a golden streak that evaporated before it hit the drain.

    The son’s hanging took longer. His adolescent body fought harder, his kicks more violent, his throat working around sounds that never formed. When his climax came—a wet, shuddering thing—the fourteen-year-old daughter reached out instinctively, as if to steady him, though she knew it didn’t matter now. His bladder released with a sigh, the smell of ammonia mixing with the copper already saturating the air.

    The fourteen-year-old was last. She stepped onto the platform with her chin lifted, her body already humming with the strange electricity of imminent death. The noose scratched her collarbones. She thought of her mother’s ring—melted down by now, probably—as the drop fell. Her legs danced ten full minutes, toes pointed like a ballerina’s. The orgasm built slowly, cresting in waves that left her gasping against the rope, until finally her muscles unlocked in a rush of warmth that dripped down her thighs. In the silence that followed, her bladder let go with the quiet dignity of a tap being turned off.

    The conveyor belt started with a jolt. The family moved in single file—toward a stainless steel maw that hummed like a refrigerator. The sixteen-year-old’s body entered first, his acne-spattered shoulders vanishing into the grinder’s teeth with a sound like popcorn kernels popping. The fourteen-year-old’s long hair caught briefly in the mechanism before the blades snipped it clean.

    Somewhere beyond the processing room, a cafeteria worker seasoned vats of freshly ground meat with rosemary and thyme.
    >>
    No.29996 [Report]
    ▶
    This feels like it could fit in Symbri's world, or at least adjecent to it! I do like the exploration of the way the different family members responded and the choices they made. Too bad the fourteen year old and ten year old didn't get spit-roasted ;)
    >>
    No.30014 [Report]
    ▶
    The sixteen-year-old boy's fingers drummed against his thigh, counting the seconds until the broadcast started. His lottery ticket—a faded slip of blue paper—was pressed between his palms like a prayer. Around him, the living room hummed with the usual Friday evening chaos: his youngest sister stacking blocks into precarious towers, the ten-year-old arguing with the fourteen-year-old over whose turn it was to pick the movie, his mother microwaving popcorn. Normal. Routine.

    "Turn it up," his father said, not looking away from the screen as the lottery jingle played. The boy reached for the remote. Static flickered across the screen before settling into the crisp image of the state auditor, her gray suit immaculate, her smile practiced.

    "Good evening, citizens. Tonight's drawing will commence in sixty seconds. Please have your identification and lottery slips ready for verification."

    The popcorn bag hissed in the microwave. The boy exhaled, slow. He’d checked his number seventeen times this week. 482-556-901. Not that it mattered. The odds were—

    The auditor’s polished nails clicked against the glass bowl as she stirred the numbers. The boy’s youngest sister abandoned her blocks and crawled into his lap, her small fingers curling around his wrist. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until the first number tumbled out.

    "482," the auditor announced.

    His mother’s hand froze halfway to her mouth, a single popcorn kernel suspended between her fingers. The microwave beeped, unanswered.

    "556," the auditor continued.

    The boy’s throat closed. His youngest sister’s breath warmed his collarbone as she pressed closer, her tiny heart hammering against his ribs. The auditor’s voice, smooth as polished steel, sliced through the silence: "901."

    His father’s chair creaked as he leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees. The popcorn kernel slipped from his mother’s fingers, bouncing off the coffee table with a sound like a gunshot. The ten-year-old let out a high, thin noise—not quite a whimper, not quite a word.

    Then the auditor kept reading.

    "207," their mother’s number.

    "331," the auditor said—the six-year-old’s number, scribbled in crayon on her ticket, still sticky from where she’d pressed it against her juice box earlier. The fourteen-year-old made a sound like a laugh caught in a vise when "619" followed, her own digits. The boy’s fingers tightened around his sister as the auditor’s voice kept going, clinical and unhurried, peeling them apart one number at a time.

    The microwave beeped again, insistent. No one moved. The ten-year-old had started rocking slightly, her knees drawn up to her chest. The mother reached for her, then stopped, her hand hovering midair like she wasn’t sure which child to touch first. The father exhaled through his nose, long and slow, before standing abruptly. He walked to the television, turned it off with a click that echoed louder than it should have.

    For a full minute, the only sound was the four-year-old humming tunelessly into the boy’s shirt, her legs swinging where they dangled over his knees. Then the fourteen-year-old stood, her chair scraping back. "We should—" she started, then stopped, her voice cracking. The boy watched her throat work as she swallowed. "We should pack," she tried again, firmer this time.

    The mother nodded mechanically, already moving toward the stairs. "Clothes," she said, "toothbrushes." The ten-year-old unfurled from her ball on the couch, her face blotchy. "Do we—" she whispered, then shook her head violently when the six-year-old perked up with a loud, "Are we going on a trip?"

    The father cleared his throat, the sound rough like gravel dragged over pavement. "We'll go Monday," he said, and the way he said it—like it was already etched in stone, like arguing would only chip away at the time they had left—made the sixteen-year-old press his lips together until they ached. The six-year-old clapped her hands, oblivious. "Is Monday tomorrow?" she asked, bouncing on her toes.

    "No," the fourteen-year-old said softly. She crouched down, eye-level with her sister, and smoothed the wild curls away from the little girl’s forehead. "Monday is after the weekend. Two more sleeps." The boy watched his sister’s fingers tremble where they tucked the hair behind the six-year-old’s ear, then steady again.

    Their mother exhaled sharply, like she’d been holding her breath underwater. "We’ll need—" she started, then stopped. The microwave beeped a third time, the sound cutting through the room like a knife. The popcorn inside had long since stopped popping.

    The ten-year-old wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "Can I pick my own?" she asked, her voice small but clear. The father turned toward her, his brow furrowing.

    The father hesitated, then nodded once. "Yes," he said, and the word landed like a stone in still water. The ten-year-old straightened slightly, her chin lifting. "Garrote," she said, with a certainty that made the sixteen-year-old's stomach twist. Their mother made a wounded noise low in her throat but didn't argue.

    The six-year-old tugged at the fourteen-year-old's sleeve. "What's a g'rot?" she asked, mangling the word. The fourteen-year-old opened her mouth, then closed it again. Their mother stepped in smoothly, kneeling to brush a smudge of juice off the six-year-old's cheek. "It's like... a very tight hug around your neck," she murmured. The six-year-old considered this, then grinned. "I like hugs!"

    The absurdity of it—the way their mother's hands shook as she tied the six-year-old's shoelaces, the fourteen-year-old humming a lullaby under her breath while packing spare underwear into backpacks—made the boy want to scream. Instead, he scooped up his youngest sister, her weight familiar against his hip, and carried her upstairs to help pick out her "trip clothes."

    They spent Sunday at the park. The ten-year-old swung higher than anyone, her sneakers scraping the sky, while the six-year-old chased pigeons with gleeful shrieks. The father pushed the four-year-old on the baby swings, his hands steady on her back each time she arced toward him. The boy watched his mother from the bench, the way she memorized the shape of her children's laughter, her fingers curling around her wedding ring like it might anchor her.

    The bus doors hissed open with a sound like escaping steam. The sixteen-year-old adjusted the strap of his backpack—too light, stuffed only with pajamas and toothbrushes—and stepped onto the curb. Behind him, his sisters clambered down one by one, the four-year-old clutching her stuffed rabbit by one ear. The parking lot was nearly empty. Too early for the crowds, his father had insisted. Better this way.

    A single blackbird watched them from the execution center's wrought-iron gate, head cocked. The boy stared back until it took flight, wings slicing the morning air like scissors. His mother smoothed the six-year-old's dress for the third time, her fingers lingering at the hem. "Remember," she murmured, "stand straight when you—" Her voice fractured. The father placed a hand on her shoulder, solid as stone.

    Inside, the lobby smelled of antiseptic and lemon floor wax. A receptionist glanced up from her terminal, her smile bright as the fluorescent lights overhead. "Numbers?" she asked, fingers poised above the keyboard. The boy watched his father's throat move as he swallowed—once, twice—before reciting their digits in a voice that didn't waver. The printer whirred, spitting out seven laminated passes. PURGING AUTHORIZATION, each one read in crisp black letters. Valid for one day only.

    "Method selection is down the hall to your left," the receptionist said, already turning to the next family shuffling through the doors. The fourteen-year-old took her pass with both hands, studying it like a treasure map. The boy caught the tremor in her fingers before she stuffed it in her pocket.

    A clerk in a starched white coat greeted them at the registration desk. "Method preference?" she asked, tapping her stylus against a tablet. The boy watched his father’s jaw work before he answered. "Hanging. Short drop." The clerk nodded, tapping the screen. "Common choice," she remarked, her tone pleasant. "And the young ones?"

    The four-year-old tugged at the boy’s sleeve. "I wanna go *fast*," she whispered, as if sharing a secret. He crouched down, his knees popping, and brushed her hair behind her ear. "You sure?" he asked, though he already knew. She nodded solemnly, her eyes wide and unafraid. "Gunshot," he heard himself say. The clerk’s stylus clicked.

    The clerk’s stylus hovered over the tablet. "And the mother?" she asked. The boy watched his mother’s hands—still clutching the six-year-old’s shoulders—tighten briefly before she exhaled. "Beheading," she said, her voice steadier than expected. The six-year-old twisted in her grip. "Me too!" she announced, bouncing on her toes. "Like Mommy!" The clerk’s smile didn’t waver as she tapped the screen. "Axe or guillotine?"

    "Axe," his mother said quietly. The boy saw the way her fingers twitched toward her own throat before she caught herself.

    The ten-year-old stepped forward without prompting. "Garrote," she repeated, chin lifted. The fourteen-year-old swallowed audibly beside him before murmuring, "Hanging. Like Dad." The clerk’s stylus moved efficiently, the clicks rhythmic. When she turned to the boy, he realized he’d been holding his breath. "Short drop," he said, matching his father’s choice. His voice cracked on the second word.

    A printer hummed behind the desk, spitting out seven slips of paper. The clerk handed them over with a rehearsed smile. "Proceed through the blue door for undressing. Lockers are provided." The four-year-old grabbed her slip with both hands, giggling when it fluttered in her grip. "Like tickets!" she whispered. The boy reached down to tuck it into her pocket before she could drop it.

    The blue door swung inward with a pneumatic hiss, revealing a sterile room lined with metal lockers and benches. Fluorescent light bounced off the white tiles, too bright, making the boy blink. His youngest sister pressed against his leg, her stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest. "It's cold," she whispered. He crouched to button her cardigan, fingers fumbling over the tiny plastic buttons.

    The mother moved first, methodically unzipping the six-year-old's dress. "Arms up," she murmured, and the girl obeyed, giggling when the fabric caught briefly over her head. The father worked in silence, unbuckling his belt with stiff fingers. The fourteen-year-old hesitated by the lockers, her cheeks flushed, before turning her back to the room and shrugging out of her sweater. Only the ten-year-old moved with purpose, toeing off her sneakers like she was preparing for gym class.

    The boy focused on his own laces, the mundane act of untying them anchoring him. His youngest sister patted his shoulder. "You're slow," she announced, already naked except for her socks, which pooled around her ankles like deflated balloons. He smiled—couldn't help it—and peeled them off her feet one at a time, tickling her sole just to hear her squeal. The sound bounced off the tiles, too loud, too alive.

    A buzzer sounded. The fourteen-year-old jumped, her bare shoulders tense. "Undressing complete," a mechanical voice announced. "Proceed to the waiting area." The mother reached for the six-year-old's hand, then stopped, her fingers hovering. The girl didn't notice, too busy twirling in front of a floor-length mirror, fascinated by the way her reflection moved with her. "Look, I'm a ballerina!"

    The fourteen-year-old stared at her reflection—pale, naked, ribs visible with each shallow breath—then turned abruptly away. The boy watched his father step toward the next door, shoulders squared, but hesitate when the four-year-old grabbed his pinky finger. "Daddy," she whispered, "do I get a lollipop after?" The father's throat moved before he managed, "Yes. The biggest one."

    The waiting area smelled like bleach and something faintly metallic. Plastic chairs lined the walls, some occupied by other families in various states of undress. A toddler wailed in the corner while its mother shushed it mechanically. The boy guided his sisters to a cluster of seats, the six-year-old immediately climbing onto the fourteen-year-old's lap to braid her hair. "Like Elsa!" she announced, fingers tangling in the blonde strands.

    The ten-year-old sat rigid beside him, knees pressed together. "How long?" she asked, too quietly for the others to hear. The boy checked the wall clock—9:17—and shrugged. The second hand ticked louder than it should have. Across the room, an elderly man coughed wetly into his hand.

    At 9:32, a speaker crackled. "Family 482-556-901," a voice called. The mother stood so fast her chair screeched. The six-year-old clapped, mistaking it for a game show announcement. "That's us!" The father reached for the four-year-old, but she darted ahead, still clutching her stuffed rabbit by one ear.

    The execution chamber door slid open with a hydraulic sigh. Inside, the air smelled of gun oil and fresh sawdust. The four-year-old skipped ahead, her bare feet whispering against the concrete floor. "Is this the playground?" she asked, pointing at the steel drain set into the floor. The sixteen-year-old bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper.

    A technician in disposable coveralls knelt to adjust the tripod-mounted rifle. The boy watched his father's hands twitch—once—before settling on the four-year-old's shoulders. "Remember," he murmured, crouching to her level, "you get to go first. Like winning a race." She beamed, missing the way his fingers trembled against her collarbone.

    The technician gestured to the yellow footprints painted on the floor. "Stand here, please." The four-year-old obeyed, still hugging her rabbit. "Can Mr. Flopsy watch?" The technician's mask crinkled at the corners. "Of course." He tucked the plush ears gently out of the way before positioning the rifle's muzzle three inches from the back of her skull.

    The boy counted the freckles on his sister's shoulders—eleven—as the technician's finger hovered over the trigger. Then: a crack like a balloon popping, the rabbit dropping from limp fingers before her knees even hit the ground. The six-year-old gasped. "She fell down!"

    Their mother made a sound like a dying animal, low and guttural, before clapping a hand over her mouth. The technician nudged the small body onto its side with his boot—professional, efficient.

    The boy watched his mother kneel beside the four-year-old's body, her fingers brushing the shell of an ear still warm from life. "She didn't feel it," the mother whispered, more to herself than anyone. The six-year-old tugged at her sleeve. "Mommy, it's your turn!"

    The beheading block was polished oak, darkened with old stains. His mother knelt without prompting, her spine straight, the tendons in her neck standing out like bridge cables. The executioner—a broad-shouldered man with a handlebar mustache—hefted the axe with practiced ease. The first swing caught her mid-cervical; the boy saw the moment her eyes registered the pain, mouth opening in a soundless scream before the second blow severed her head completely. It rolled toward the six-year-old, who giggled. "Mommy's playing soccer!"

    The technician guided the six-year-old to the block next. She went willingly, still humming the tune from her mother's lullaby. One clean stroke—luck, the executioner muttered—and her small body crumpled forward, pigtails bouncing. Blood arced in a perfect parabola, splattering the ten-year-old's bare feet. She didn't flinch.

    The ten-year-old stepped forward next, her gait stiff like a wind-up doll. The garrote’s leather strap hung limp from its frame, waiting. She climbed onto the stool without help, her toes curling over the edge for balance. The technician adjusted the strap around her throat—not too tight, not yet—and she tilted her chin up, exposing the fragile dip of her collarbone. "Count backwards from ten," the technician instructed, his fingers brushing her shoulder. "Ten," she began, clear and steady. "Nine." The wheel creaked as he turned it. "Eight." Her voice hitched. "Sev—" The strap cinched. Her fingers flew to her neck, scratching at the leather, her legs pistoning against the stool. The boy counted the seconds—until her thrashing slowed, her face purpling like a bruise. At four minutes, her bladder let go, a dark stream pattering on the concrete. At five, her hands dropped. The technician checked her pulse, then nodded to the father.

    The father exhaled through his nose, long and slow, before stepping toward the gallows. The noose swayed slightly, its knot freshly oiled. He tested the trapdoor with his weight, once, then turned to face his children. The trapdoor clanged open. The boy counted the jerks of his father’s legs—before the telltale stiffening and sperm come out of his cock - and until later the legs and the cock sudden slackness and the father empty after seven minutes his bladder.

    The sixteen-year-old’s turn came next. The noose chafed against his Adam’s apple as he adjusted it himself. His little sisters’ bodies were being wheeled away on gurneys—the four-year-old’s rabbit tucked under her arm by some merciful hand—but he fixed his eyes on the fourteen-year-old instead. "Sing," he croaked, and she understood immediately, her voice trembling through the first lines of their childhood lullaby. The trapdoor dropped. The song fractured as his body convulsed, his erection straining against nothing. The orgasm hit at six minutes, his hips stuttering mid-air, and he thought absurdly of his first wet dream—how he’d woken ashamed, how his mother had laughed and tousled his hair. Darkness swallowed the memory.

    The fourteen-year-old was last. She climbed the gallows steps slowly, her bare feet leaving damp prints on the wood. The noose smelled of hemp and sweat. She inhaled deeply a last time and the trapdoor drooped. The rope snapped taut. Her legs bicycled wildly, her toes pointed like a dancer’s. At nine minutes, her thighs glistened, the scent of salt and iron sharp in the sterile air. After ten minutes she hang still and begin to empty her bladder.

    The grinding mechanism roared to life with a sound like distant thunder, its steel teeth gleaming under the harsh industrial lights. The four-year-old's body vanished first—small enough that the technicians didn't even need to fold her in half before feeding her into the chute. Her stuffed rabbit tumbled in after, caught in the whirl of blades, emerging seconds later as tufts of pink fluff mixed with the minced meat. Someone would find it later, maybe pluck it out with tweezers before packaging. Or maybe not.

    The father's corpse required more effort. Two attendants lifted him by the ankles, his limp cock still glistening from his final release, and maneuvered him into the grinder headfirst. The machine choked momentarily when his broad shoulders jammed against the feed, then powered through with a sickening crunch. His wedding ring sparked once against the blades before disappearing into the slurry. The mother's corpse and the sixteen-years-old corpses also come into the grinder.

    At the next station, the six-year-old lay splayed on a stainless steel table, her pigtails now tied back with rubber bands to keep the hair out of the meat. The surgeon made the Y-incision with practiced precision, her scalpel parting the skin between clavicles like butter. The entrails came out in one slick pull—purplish ropes of intestine, the liver's dense wedge, the stomach surprisingly small once emptied of its last meal (half a peanut butter sandwich, the crusts neatly trimmed). These slid into a biohazard bin marked NON-EDIBLE in cheerful green letters.

    Her limbs were segmented at the joints with a bone saw. The arms went into one tray, the legs another. The attending butcher paused at the pelvis, tilting his head. "We're getting requests for younger cuts," he remarked to his assistant, tapping the six-year-old's hipbone with his knife. "More tender." The assistant nodded, already labeling the vacuum-sealed packages.

    In Bay 3, the ten-year-old and fourteen-year-old hung from meathooks by their Achilles tendons, swaying slightly in the refrigerated air. Their abdominal cavities gaped where the organs had been scooped out—a cleaner job than the six-year-old's. A quality control inspector ran his gloved finger along the fourteen-year-old's and the ten-years-old´s ribcages, nodding approval at the marbling. "Prime roasting stock," he noted, marking his clipboard. The assistant nodded, and both get vacuum packaged as a whole, so that they can be roasted in oven or at the spit after the selling.
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    No.30016 [Report]
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    >>30014
    Very nice! Is this meant to be the same story from a different perspective or a different but similar family? I do like the expanded meat-processing at the end of this one :D
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    No.30025 [Report]
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    Really interesting. Wish we'd gotten to know them all a bit better though. I'm also not going to compare this to my world, let it be it's own thing
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    No.30038 [Report]
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    >>30016
    I´s a other family - and with a expand meat-processing. But it be play in the same world.
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    No.30044 [Report]
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    >>29994

    Looks like AI story generation has gotten good enough to fool a lot more people now. It still has quite a ways to go before I would be satisfied with it, but at least it's not garbage any more.

    Fairly hot story, if you overlook its flaws.
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    No.30045 [Report]
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    I didn't want to say anything but that does read like the perchance generator doesn't it? Ah well, I use ChatGPT for grammar checking
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