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Rated: GC · Short Story · Dark · #2277950
Entry for Dystopian Scrawlings July-Sept '22
The way I remember it, the event was hardly worth the hype. That didn't matter though. It was the duty of every citizen to witness the death of the heretic. Dutifully, I combed my hair and straightened the hang of my formal uniform. I left my apartment, identical to so many others, and joined the flow of people into the square.

Heresy was a serious crime. In a country where all law was divinely inspired, and the rulers were the hands and mouths of god, to say anything against the regime in charge was heresy. Even whispering it alone in your bedroom at night was a risk. You never knew when someone was listening.

The accused this time hadn't been secretive when he spoke against The Hands of God. He had called the Right Hand a fool for not taking the threats of the European Commonwealth Seriously. I agreed with him, but I would never say so. The Hands of God were backing us into a corner that only another World War could break us out of. This time we would be the unpopular aggressors.

We reached the square and shifted position until we were all aligned and in our assigned positions according to our rank in the church. The faithful stood near the back people whose faith might be in question stood within arm's reach of the guillotine. It was a reminder that they could be the next to face correction. We all stood waiting, watching. The accused was marched out onto the platform. his mouth was sewn shut with coarse twine. His eyes were glued open.

He would see the error of his ways but would not be permitted any final inspiring heresy. They forced him to kneel at the guillotine. They strapped him into position. The blade was ceremoniously hoisted. And the Right Hand himself stood at the microphone, "This man has spoken lies against the words of god. Blessed be all you welcomed here to witness his correction." He turned to the executioner and raised his hand. Before it could fall and signal the falling of the blade an air raid siren went off. Shortly bombs began to fall. In the chaotic confusion, the blade fell. That was the moment that the accused became The Martyred Prophet.

381 words

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