Almost a hundred years have passed since it first came to our little town of Paradise. No one living or dead has ever been able to say where it had come from or why it chose to make a home here. The old timers some old enough to have been there at the beginning speak of it as tangible darkness. A shadow that was more than shade, and yet somehow still ethereal. In those days when there had been no solution, and the darkness spread across the community like a raging fire or perhaps like a quick moving cancer that consumes everything in its path. Crops withered and died, the bodies of newborn children were found cold and still in their cribs, and only after enough death did the darkness fade back into the shadows where it would remain it’s ravenous hunger temporarily sated. The people of Paradise knew that the darkness would return someday, so they devised a plan, and waited with watchful eyes.
Dawn. On the morning of the great parade and the townsfolk are gathering along Redemption road. It’s the main road through Paradise and splits the town into near perfect halves. At the western edge of the town sits the courthouse, church, and town hall. If you travel east along the great road, first, you will pass by dozens of comfortable cottages, home to the many residents of Paradise, and beyond them through the dense canopy of forest sits the prison and me with it.
The early morning light drifts through barred windows casting a golden hue across my cell. I can feel the winter’s chill seeping through the ancient stones. The clinking of keys tells me it’s time for my morning’s conjugal visit, and one last opportunity to keep my bloodline from fading into obscurity. Soon I will be taken from this place and paraded across the great road, and all in the name of prosperity, health for my fellow men and women, and a bountiful harvest.
The strong locks creak open, and the heavy door swings inward. Evelyn enters glowing with sexual energy. Earlier this week she was the first woman to come to my cell and every other day a new woman came, but Evelyn had been my favorite and so when given a choice for this last day it was her I chose. Now that she’s standing before me, though, I am without desire. Even as she presses her body against mine and places her sensual lips on my neck, I feel nothing. Her hands slide down my chest, her fingers soft against my flesh until they reach my pants. She gives a quick tug, and I’m naked from the waist below; I can feel her breath on my manhood but still nothing.
Nothing.
Evelyn attempts to coerce my body into a state of readiness, but it’s no good. For a moment I worry that I may have insulted her, but she seems relieved. She is still a young woman, and the burden of a fatherless child must be frightening, even, if it is considered a great honor. We pass the remainder of our time together in silence her hand resting in mine. Before the morning sun has moved far across my cell wall, we hear the jingling of keys and the iron door opens inward again where a guard stands and signals Evelyn that time is up. She moves towards the door, but before she exits my cell turns back a final time and favors me with a particularly beautiful smile. I feel the stirring of arousal as the door clicks shut behind her. Oh well too late for that now.
It won’t be long now; soon they’ll come to fetter my limbs and pull me from this cell. The minutes drag on in an endless string of moments all more meaningless than the last. I watch as the sun climbs the wall inching its way closer to eight and as it does the church bells in the distance ring in the hour. When the eighth and final chime sounds, I hear movement in the hall. Their footfalls echo profoundly on the stone corridor, and there rings of keys jingle with incessant persistence.
It’s time.
There are very little circumstance and nothing ceremonial about this part. Only the quick, efficient work of the guards as they shackle my wrists and legs, and then tether them together in such a way as to make escape impossible. I’m led with a guard at each arm, to the outer edge of the prison grounds. Surrounded by high walls topped with coils of razor wire. I look on as the impenetrable fortress opens and a beautiful bay horse draws a cart with a massive post at its center towards me. When the mare stops; the guards at my side usher me forward and begin unshackling a few of my restraints. The guards hoist me up into the cart, securing my bonds to the post, and leave me standing immobile able to do little more than stare straight ahead.
The cart begins to sway as the bay mare moves forward turning in a gentle arc until she is facing the fortress door again. Aged and ancient wood creaks and groans as the gates open with painful slowness.
The wagon crawls forward with steady purpose passing first through the grove of trees acting as a final barrier between the horrors of the prison and the pristine town ahead, and then past the few huts sitting at the edge of town. This early part of the journey is blessedly quiet it would seem that the residents who call these cottages home are gathering further up ahead; waiting with the rest of the mob. I can hear the winter birds singing their songs as my breath hangs before my face with each exhale. The cold winter air stings my lungs and bites into my exposed skin.
As the horse-drawn cart exits the forest, I can see the first stirrings of the crowd. The entire town stands along the parade route, and I can see the malice blazing in their eyes. Hatred so intense one would be surprised to know that I was born of this place and have called it home all my life. I recognize the faces of friends and neighbors no more, instead what I see are faces masked in rancor and hostility. First comes the taunts and jeers; I watch as their faces show malice and then quickly shift to rapturous joy as I pass. Individual voices being swallowed and spit back as one voice unified in acrimony.
The babbling voices rise and fall as I’m pulled forward, and I can see some with their arms wound back aiming. First comes the rotten fruit and vegetables, my head bobs instinctively trying to avoid the bombardment, but now the others no longer content with just taunting take up arms as well and soon a thick rain of spoiled food flies at me from every direction. I can feel the soft and hard bumps as rank cabbage, and half fermented potatoes bounce off my chest, my neck, and my face. A flash of white scatters my vision, and I feel my stomach fill up with molten lead as something strikes me in the groin. As I’m pulled along the road, their voices grow; their laughter trailing behind and swallowing me as I pass.
Soon the rotten vegetables will give way to stones and chunks of rock the size of a fist and at least one person will throw excrement; human or animal I cannot say and does it matter shit is shit. I take satisfaction in every errant stone, and for every hit, there are three who miss. Beyond this hailstorm of rage, I can see a beautiful young woman approaching, a shimmer running through the mob like the wind across a cornfield. She pushes forward and breaks the ranks spilling into the path of the wagon. She steps aside and climbs up onto my cart; her hands are stained red and glistening in the morning sun. I remember her as the shopkeeper’s daughter, Lily, but I cannot recognize the fire and hate behind her eyes.
Lily stands in front of me her body giving off a terrible shimmer, trembling with insatiable malice and runs her hand against my face smearing wet blood across my face. For a moment I’m drowning in the smell of copper, and I see her head cock back and peck forward spit flying from her lips landing between my eyes and mixing with the blood. A moment later a chunk of rock the size of an orange came flying by my head missing by mere inches, and striking Lily in the center of her forehead. I watch as what was meant for me tares the flesh back across her skull sending her eyes rolling into the back of her head. She stands suspended in a daze before collapsing off the side of the cart, falling head first back into the raging mob.
Dead or alive I could not say and the joy of watching her body crumple over fades quickly. As another large stone grazes my brow splitting the tight skin and sending a fresh stream of blood cascading down my face, and for a few moments, I can see nothing. I attempt to open my eyes but fail. I struggle against the stinging sensation and fight to keep my eyes open the world swims before me in a deep crimson. Up ahead my destination is coming into view. I know that it means the end of my life and welcome the sight all the same. Enough.
Even the mob seems to be thinning out as we draw closer to the end of the line. They gather up the last of their arms, and a final barrage begins. Everything they can toss crashing down around me; with the rank vegetables bursting and popping at my feet and against my chest. Stones are striking and bruising my already tender flesh. A firework explodes in the center of my mind as a rock hits my forehead. I allow my chin to rest on my chest wanting to take a moment to gather my strength and face the end with as much dignity as I may. Upon raising my head, I see that I’m close now and my lungs fill with the icy winter’s air. The end is almost here and its relief I feel licking at my limbs and warming my core, and as if to spite my acceptance one final rock whistles through the air and smashes against my mouth. I feel my teeth falling; I hear them land on the wooden planks below and then…
Darkness.
The water is cold, and my eyes open to two hooded men standing over me each with an empty bucket in their hands. I notice that I’ve been freed from the stake attached to the cart and must have been drug, some thirty feet to the base of an altar. I feel myself slipping back into unconsciousness, and one of my chaperones jabs me in the ribs.
“Wake up.”
“Almost over now.”
The man’s laugh melts into the humming of the mob. I can no longer make sense of the words. Perhaps there are no words left, and it’s all become senseless babble a meaningless orgy of sound. Even my best efforts to remain fully aware of what is happening around me are in vain, as the moments, clash and collide I’m carried semi-conscious up the altar. Upon reaching the top, they wrap my ankles in a heavy cord and in between moments of awareness I’m hoisted up and hung upside down.
A silence of falls over the crowd and soon all is still as they stand and watch. Waiting. A man in a dark robe decorated in archaic symbols materializes in front of me and places his hand on my head. He is chanting quietly at first but growing louder, picking up speed and rhythm. The mob begins swaying and moaning in ecstasy their anticipation reaching a feverous pitch.
I shut my eyes.
The hooded man pushes my head back, and I can sense his other hand, armed with a sacrificial blade rising to meet my throat. For a moment I feel cold steel against my neck and then a single stinging pain. As he relinquishes his hold upon my head I allow my eyes to open; I look past the mob and focus on the winter blue sky, and sure enough, I see the approaching darkness; the hunger to be sated. For the second time today the world before my eyes goes crimson and my heart pumps one final gout of blood through my veins and out of my throat spilling into the intricately carved altar below and running down to the soil beneath.
With the darkness’s hunger sated the mob dissipates and the ordinarily peaceful townsfolk return to their affairs. Some will mourn my death and others will celebrate another eighteen years of prosperity, but in the minds of all the seed of the next sacrifice is planted, and there it will remain until the day of the next great parade.
Short Stories
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I like the world you’ve set up here, and I like the rules you established for us in your world. I wonder about the malice of the crowd, however. Is the victim functioning as a scapegoat? or one who pulls the evil of the town into the darkness with him? I would think the people would be pleased that they haven’t been selected to lose their lives for the sake of the town. For that matter, how are the victims chosen? If they are perhaps prisoners or other unwanted members of the community, why are they given the opportunity to continue their bloodline through scheduled conjugal visitation? It seemed a bit out of place to have a sacrifice that is both honored (and it is an honor for the young women to bear the children of those sacrificed) but also hated (evinced by the hostility of the onlookers).
Why did you choose to write in first person if the victim will ultimately die? I thought something would step in to save him or call off the sacrifice because the story was written in first person. If you choose to keep it written this way, perhaps change the ending to an third-person “exterior shot.”
As in:
“With the darkness’s hunger sated the mob dissipates and the ordinarily peaceful townsfolk return to their affairs to celebrate another eighteen years of prosperity. Whether they mourned or celebrated, in the minds of all the seed of the next sacrifice was planted, and there remained until the day of the next great parade.”
Really strong piece, though. Thank you.
First, thank you for reading.
I would like to start by saying that everything I have posted I consider to be a form of rough draft. Some ideas will change and expand, and others could be removed entirely.
When I started to write this piece I had two goals. One goal was to tell a story about the fears and horrors of mob mentality and what can happen when a large group believes in something and the terrible things they may do because of that belief. My second goal was to write a story that wasn’t heavy on dialogue.
Now, you have given me a bunch of stuff to think about especially when I move forward and get to a full rewrite. I wish I had more to say about some of your comments but I never really gave any thought to why he was chosen which is probably a massive fail on my part considering I do need to show his status and position in the community before this moment to get the emotional response I was attempting. There is a line of that never made it into the story which again is my error, and that part does at least hint at why he would be both revered and treated with hostility. I believe the people of Paradise vilify the individual as a way of dealing with the guilt of condemning him to death. In some ways, they feel it’s easier to allow it to happen if they make him into the enemy, and that should have made it into the story. I imagine it ended up as a note that was overlooked when I was working. It plays to the idea, at least, in my mind as to why he is given the opportunity to mate, but without determining why he was selected, who selected him, or what his status was before this it does get confusing or lost altogether.
As to why I wrote from his perspective, even though, I knew he wouldn’t survive, was again part of attempting to write differently and from a different narrative viewpoint.
Again, thanks for reading, and thank you for the comment and critiques it’s given me a bunch of stuff to think about.
Fantastic. I love a good scapegoat story. It is a unique way to explore the dangers of mob mentality, especially if, as you say, he went from perhaps a beloved member of the community (or at least one who did no harm) to being vilified as a way for people to justify this barbaric practice.
The point of view concept is an interesting one for sure. It speaks indirectly to the immortality of the soul.