He walked to the exit escorted by his plaintiffs; those to whom he had entreated. He beheld the brilliant sun. He walked toward the stairs, then climbed beyond; a shroud now covered his head. The floor fell away, he plunged, and his neck snapped. His soul beheld the black sun.
Paul H. Yarbrough is a novelist, short story author and free lance writer of political and social topics. He lives in Houston, Texas. His third novel is coming out later this year. See more at paulhyarbrough.com
Standing on the gallows ground with the rough, tight rope around my neck.
The smell of death was everywhere.
For the last time, I looked up at the gloomy sky.
Suddenly, the executioner pulled the trigger.
I woke up.
In his sleep, he’d kicked me out of bed again.
Mohammad S. Babaei is computer programmer who is also in love with English literature. He is so much into poetry and recently developed the same taste for short stories.
The guard we call “Snake” saunters over to my cell door, opens the bean slot, and snarls, “Due to unforeseeable circumstances, Sweetheart, your execution will be held on your birthday,” then slams the metal door shut, like it was a guillotine.
I can almost taste my favorite flavor cake frosting.
Brad Rose was raised in southern California, and lives in Boston. Links to his poetry and fiction, which appear in print and on-line, can be found at bradrosepoetry.blogspot.com.
Jordan finished the meal he requested, and set aside his dessert—cherry pie—so he could finish it later.
The cell guard turned to the warden and said, “I thought prisoners couldn’t be executed if they didn’t know what was happening to ’em.”
“So much for theory,” the warden sneered.
Adam Sprague’s work can be found in 365Tomorrows magazine. For more information check out his site.
The man was on his knees in the pale white snow. He pleaded with the Nazi soldier, but it didn’t work. Snow still fell.
The lights all moved towards the prisoner. The soldier took four paces back and said a few words.
And the prisoner awaited his death.
Cameron Brown is a student at Holden Lane High in Stoke-on-Trent, England.
They shared everything together. Every scrap of bread; every whispered word; every somber smile. They were a community: they shared a goal, a common end. After all, the only thing worse than awaiting death was awaiting it alone.
On sad days, their numbers shrank; on sadder days, their numbers grew.
The title for this story was suggested by Ragepyro.
The entire town had gathered to witness the unveiling of a new method of execution.
A fine specimen of a man was watching with the others. He stood a head taller than anyone else in the crowd.
But after the Horizontal Guillotine malfunctioned, no one looked up to him anymore.
The runners toed the line and prepared for the firing of the gun. Muscles tense, they tried to clear their minds and relax. Many years of blood, sweat, and tears had led to this moment. They felt woefully unprepared.
They fell, their wish for freedom finally, permanently granted.