Flash Fiction | November 2005 | Archives
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Elizabeth H. Hopkinson |
Last time I had to do this, I lost my nerve. I won't be doing that again. There were misgivings last time, guilty apparitions that would have haunted me. Not today. Today I am completely certain, more certain than I have ever been in my life.
The maids of honour are wailing. The old Chancellor's hands tremble as he helps her to the block. How can I do this? That's what they're thinking, I know. Her gown as white as snow; the block as black as ebony. And the red.? I test the axe blade with the edge of my thumb. Oh, yes. Let them wail. Their day is over; revolution is coming.
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