| General Fiction posted August 24, 2023 |
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Final Words Contest Entry
Smile
by Lyle Nußbaum
The jangling of keys and the grating of metal on metal brings me out of my trance. As the door of my cell creaks open, I glance once more at the barred window high above my head. Then I turn from the morning sunlight back into the dark shadows of this cold, damp room that has been my home for the past ten days.
A voice breaks the silence. "Step out," it orders, "and we will bind your arms." It is my guard. I take a step toward the open door and trip on my forgotten plate of dinner from last night. A few rats that were enjoying my scraps scrambled away from the commotion.
Stepping into the dim corridor, I see two guards. They grab me roughly and tightly bind my arms behind my back with coarse rope. When they finish, one pushes my back and says, "Move." I stumble ahead with one guard in front and one behind. I am weary and my feet drag. I have not slept for the last two nights; there will be plenty of time for sleep soon enough.
My previous nights have been filled with tears of sorrow and crying out to the silence. Over time, I have accepted my fate and I have decided to go willingly, without tears or brash words; I will die with dignity.
Suddenly, the guard's words break through my stream of thought. "Step up," he commands, and I step into a small horse-drawn cart. Both guards join me, one at my right and the other at my left.
Escape is impossible. Even if I should somehow evade the guards, there is a mob gathered around the cart that will kill me before I get very far. The guards are here more for my protection than for preventing my escape. Ironically, they protect me only so I make it to my execution alive. I am the second in a long line destined to die today.
My eyes pass over the jeering horde and settle on the guillotine, raised up on a platform. The sun shimmers on the deadly blade. This one-toothed monster will consume many today. It never quenches its thirst on the lifeblood of men; nothing can satisfy its voracious appetite. This machine for execution is the doorway that I must pass through to enter the realms of death and eternity.
Far away, I hear the great clock in the square toll nine o'clock: "Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong." The sound is a dismal death toll to my ears. Commotion breaks out as the first captive is dragged, pleading and crying, to those merciless, iron jaws. As he breaks into hysterics, the crowd laughs and mocks him. I will not give them such pleasures.
Suddenly the multitude quiets down in silent anticipation. Then the sound of the blade running its course is followed by the dull thud of the victim's head falling into the waiting basket. The crowd roars. The executioner stoops and lifts the severed head out of the basket. Holding his gory trophy high, he smiles as the blood runs down his arm. At the sight of fresh blood, the mob goes crazy and is ready for more. The head and body have been thrown aside. My turn has come.
My two guards each grab one of my arms and prepare to drag me begging to the guillotine. To their surprise, I walk with my head held high to the place where I will soon lose it. When we reach the instrument of death, I dare to make one request. "Lay me on my back so I am facing the blade," I say.
Then, to my amazement, they begin to strap me onto the rough, wooden bed facing upward. They have honored my request. Now death will not strike me from behind; I will stare at death and smile as it comes upon me. I set my neck into the stock of the guillotine. The warm, sticky blood of the previous victim covers the rough, splintery wood. My sweat mingles with the fresh blood as the top half of the stock is dropped over my neck.
Staring at the bloody blade dangling high over my neck, I prepare for death. I lie back and try to get comfortable. On this bed of pain, I yearn for eternal rest. The blade comes hurtling down and, with a smile on my face, I utter my final word, "Goodnight." Then I feel a quick jolt of pain. Darkness and peace surround me.
Final Words writing prompt entry
The jangling of keys and the grating of metal on metal brings me out of my trance. As the door of my cell creaks open, I glance once more at the barred window high above my head. Then I turn from the morning sunlight back into the dark shadows of this cold, damp room that has been my home for the past ten days.
A voice breaks the silence. "Step out," it orders, "and we will bind your arms." It is my guard. I take a step toward the open door and trip on my forgotten plate of dinner from last night. A few rats that were enjoying my scraps scrambled away from the commotion.
Stepping into the dim corridor, I see two guards. They grab me roughly and tightly bind my arms behind my back with coarse rope. When they finish, one pushes my back and says, "Move." I stumble ahead with one guard in front and one behind. I am weary and my feet drag. I have not slept for the last two nights; there will be plenty of time for sleep soon enough.
My previous nights have been filled with tears of sorrow and crying out to the silence. Over time, I have accepted my fate and I have decided to go willingly, without tears or brash words; I will die with dignity.
Suddenly, the guard's words break through my stream of thought. "Step up," he commands, and I step into a small horse-drawn cart. Both guards join me, one at my right and the other at my left.
Escape is impossible. Even if I should somehow evade the guards, there is a mob gathered around the cart that will kill me before I get very far. The guards are here more for my protection than for preventing my escape. Ironically, they protect me only so I make it to my execution alive. I am the second in a long line destined to die today.
My eyes pass over the jeering horde and settle on the guillotine, raised up on a platform. The sun shimmers on the deadly blade. This one-toothed monster will consume many today. It never quenches its thirst on the lifeblood of men; nothing can satisfy its voracious appetite. This machine for execution is the doorway that I must pass through to enter the realms of death and eternity.
Far away, I hear the great clock in the square toll nine o'clock: "Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong." The sound is a dismal death toll to my ears. Commotion breaks out as the first captive is dragged, pleading and crying, to those merciless, iron jaws. As he breaks into hysterics, the crowd laughs and mocks him. I will not give them such pleasures.
Suddenly the multitude quiets down in silent anticipation. Then the sound of the blade running its course is followed by the dull thud of the victim's head falling into the waiting basket. The crowd roars. The executioner stoops and lifts the severed head out of the basket. Holding his gory trophy high, he smiles as the blood runs down his arm. At the sight of fresh blood, the mob goes crazy and is ready for more. The head and body have been thrown aside. My turn has come.
My two guards each grab one of my arms and prepare to drag me begging to the guillotine. To their surprise, I walk with my head held high to the place where I will soon lose it. When we reach the instrument of death, I dare to make one request. "Lay me on my back so I am facing the blade," I say.
Then, to my amazement, they begin to strap me onto the rough, wooden bed facing upward. They have honored my request. Now death will not strike me from behind; I will stare at death and smile as it comes upon me. I set my neck into the stock of the guillotine. The warm, sticky blood of the previous victim covers the rough, splintery wood. My sweat mingles with the fresh blood as the top half of the stock is dropped over my neck.
Staring at the bloody blade dangling high over my neck, I prepare for death. I lie back and try to get comfortable. On this bed of pain, I yearn for eternal rest. The blade comes hurtling down and, with a smile on my face, I utter my final word, "Goodnight." Then I feel a quick jolt of pain. Darkness and peace surround me.
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Writing Prompt Your character is going to die within moments. What are the final words? Describe the circumstances of the pending death. Fiction only. |
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