A short piece of fiction written for a workshop exercise. I very much enjoyed writing it.
___________________________________________________________________________
The man was shoved towards his doom. Waking up, groggy and cold from the dark, dank hole that was his cell, he struggles up into the cold, misty air. The man’s hands are bound by rope; his wrists rubbed raw, bleeding, sore wounds, marks of his crime. Handcuffs were a luxury, a luxury the man was not worth. The man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
Two soldiers came for the man that morning. One to hold him up, one to strike the man, keep the man moving. The man could not make out the faces of the two soldiers. No food, no water, no light. The man could no longer tell friend from foe, lover from liar, a face from the dark wet ground. The man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
The soldiers were covered in mud. The mud of death, the mud of blood, deep, stinking, sucking mud. The mud could kill a man, kill a horse, stop a shell, destroy a tank. Maim an entire army. The man pushed his way through it, wishing he could fall into its dark, sticky embrace. It was an easier death than the one the man was yet to face. The man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
Shells flew over the man’s head. The man could not face another. Whistling death, the very sound alone could make the man flinch. The soldiers kept their heads down, faking unawareness. The man saw them flinch too. Shells and bullets, they were the man’s enemies. His comrades, his friends, they were not his enemy. Still, they sent the man to his doom. The man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
The man reached a patch of ground, a moment of order in a place of doom and utter chaos. A wall marked the centrepiece of the bare ground. Brick upon brick upon brick, built for one purpose. The wall bore many scars, scratches and holes upon its stone surface. The marks of a thousand men’s dooms. The man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
Other soldiers were there. The man could not count them. The man had forgotten how to count in his corner of hell. He had forgotten words, meaning, God. These men still knew God. Yet they were the ones to deliver punishment. An order from above? No, an order from below. The man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
One solider spoke. The man did not hear what was said. He had forgotten words. The man was moved to the wall, pushed against it by the soldiers. The man’s arms, still bound, did nothing for the pain. The pain he could no longer feel. His eyes were blindfolded. Not that it made any difference. A piece of cloth, white, was pinned to the man’s chest. A white heart. A criminal’s heart. The man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
The soldiers stood around the man. Friends, brothers announcing his doom. The man could not see, but the man knew so. The man knew they had guns in their hands. The man knew they would fire upon him, release him from the clasps of mortal life. And the man laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed. The man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
The soldiers were still ordered to fire on the man, the laughing man. It made the soldiers uneasy. It was unnatural. An abomination. The laughing man, laughing in the face of death. They still raised their guns to their shoulders. That was their order. They did not want to end up like the man. The man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
The man did not stop laughing. He did not stop laughing when the triggers were pulled, smoke and the crack of gunshot released into the misty dawn air. The man did not stop laughing at the acrid smell of gunpowder. It was the man’s fate. The man deserved death. It was a release. The man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
No shot hit the man that day. The white heart stayed white. A punishment fit for the crime. The man kept laughing. For the man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
A Fool's Hope.
A Shooting At Dawn.
by imightbejames
A short piece of fiction written for a workshop exercise. I very much enjoyed writing it.
___________________________________________________________________________
The man was shoved towards his doom. Waking up, groggy and cold from the dark, dank hole that was his cell, he struggles up into the cold, misty air. The man’s hands are bound by rope; his wrists rubbed raw, bleeding, sore wounds, marks of his crime. Handcuffs were a luxury, a luxury the man was not worth. The man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
Two soldiers came for the man that morning. One to hold him up, one to strike the man, keep the man moving. The man could not make out the faces of the two soldiers. No food, no water, no light. The man could no longer tell friend from foe, lover from liar, a face from the dark wet ground. The man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
The soldiers were covered in mud. The mud of death, the mud of blood, deep, stinking, sucking mud. The mud could kill a man, kill a horse, stop a shell, destroy a tank. Maim an entire army. The man pushed his way through it, wishing he could fall into its dark, sticky embrace. It was an easier death than the one the man was yet to face. The man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
Shells flew over the man’s head. The man could not face another. Whistling death, the very sound alone could make the man flinch. The soldiers kept their heads down, faking unawareness. The man saw them flinch too. Shells and bullets, they were the man’s enemies. His comrades, his friends, they were not his enemy. Still, they sent the man to his doom. The man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
The man reached a patch of ground, a moment of order in a place of doom and utter chaos. A wall marked the centrepiece of the bare ground. Brick upon brick upon brick, built for one purpose. The wall bore many scars, scratches and holes upon its stone surface. The marks of a thousand men’s dooms. The man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
Other soldiers were there. The man could not count them. The man had forgotten how to count in his corner of hell. He had forgotten words, meaning, God. These men still knew God. Yet they were the ones to deliver punishment. An order from above? No, an order from below. The man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
One solider spoke. The man did not hear what was said. He had forgotten words. The man was moved to the wall, pushed against it by the soldiers. The man’s arms, still bound, did nothing for the pain. The pain he could no longer feel. His eyes were blindfolded. Not that it made any difference. A piece of cloth, white, was pinned to the man’s chest. A white heart. A criminal’s heart. The man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
The soldiers stood around the man. Friends, brothers announcing his doom. The man could not see, but the man knew so. The man knew they had guns in their hands. The man knew they would fire upon him, release him from the clasps of mortal life. And the man laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed. The man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
The soldiers were still ordered to fire on the man, the laughing man. It made the soldiers uneasy. It was unnatural. An abomination. The laughing man, laughing in the face of death. They still raised their guns to their shoulders. That was their order. They did not want to end up like the man. The man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
The man did not stop laughing. He did not stop laughing when the triggers were pulled, smoke and the crack of gunshot released into the misty dawn air. The man did not stop laughing at the acrid smell of gunpowder. It was the man’s fate. The man deserved death. It was a release. The man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
No shot hit the man that day. The white heart stayed white. A punishment fit for the crime. The man kept laughing. For the man was a criminal. The man did not know his crime.
Share this:
Related