a random assortment of short stories

Dies Irae

Tw: death, hanging

A proud white mare strode into the square, hooves clopping unevenly on the cobblestone. Trawling behind it was a wrought iron cage, coated in spikes and enveloped in chains. Attop the horse, Monseigneur Jacques Cloubertin.

He was clothed in ornate robes, the outfit finished with a snide smirk, the very picture of evil. When his entourage arrived at the square, there was a caprice in the mood of the people. They seemed cowed, terrified. Because they knew something terrible was about to happen.

And then there was the girl. Slumped against the hard bars of her cage, wrists clamped in handcuffs and face smothered in dirt.

Dies irae, dies irae, dies irae.

She was going to die.

"Citoyens!" cried Cloubertin, "We are gathered here today to send this unholy demon back to hell, before she vilifies our people and brings havoc upon our town!"

The girl didn't look like a demon. She looked afraid and miserable.

Cloubertin lunged to position himself on a platform, chuckling and using the hangman to steady himself on his feet.

"We kindly ask dominae nostrae, et justitia executer, to well, execute justice!"

A wry laugh rippled through the crowd. The guards unlocked the clunky cage, and all but carried the girl out. She looked as though she was already dead.

Dies irae, dies irae, dies irae.

Cloubertin forcefully wrapped the noose around the girl's unclean neck. Then he wrapped his twisted fingers around the rickety lever and pulled. With a jolt, the girl shot up into the air, her neck breaking with a crack. She hung there, limp and fragile. What had she done? We will never know. The hangman shuddered, then the resounding wailing began.

Beautiful, delicate, yet mournful chanting.

Dies irae, dies irae, dies irae

She was dead.

Story by Eva