Headsman

• Jerome Des Preaux, Grade 8, Smiths Hill High School
• Short Story
• 2014

Excellence Award in the 'The Text Generation 2014' competition

The faded blacks and greys of the canvas grow taut as he stretches the mask over his head, and ties the weathered leather laces with his callused, tanned hands scarred from years of work. Sullen, sunken eyes peer out from beneath, swimming in shadow, staring into the melancholy darkness of the expanse around them. The headsman walks to the door and shoves it open, unceremoniouly, with a grunt. The scuff of leather on wood rings hollow in his ears as he climbs the creaking bent steps to the elevated platform, and the enraged bellowing from the crowd dies. The mottled grey of the clouds shade them, turning the faces into a restless sea of shifting faces, incongruent. Looking down, the headsman picks up the notched axe by its chipped, brown shaft, and heaves it onto his shoulder. The deep brown, splintering wood underfoot is stained with the rich, regal maroons of blood. He shuffles over to the dead man and takes the weapon in both hands before swinging it down, through the throat of the man, into the wooden block below. He leaves the axe quivering where it stands. The scent of death struggles to flee from the limp body and dying flesh. The roar of the horde gathers and washes over the headsman, cleansing, escaping into the air and dispersing from the plaza to fall upon the city, ringing of justice and bacchanalian ferity. looks down as he moves down the stairs, and back towards the door.