kill your darlings.

I. BEHEADED MEN TELL TALES.

“THIS FOUL CREATURE IS SENTENCED TO DEATH BY BEHEADING ! ” The town crier called upon the people in the village, each soul, regardless of the age, stood to watch in awe, the unfortunate piece of solid shit who was going to meet his maker that very moment.

A man stood on the wooden stage, his face covered in a muslin sack, his scummy and dirty and filthy face spared the glances and dismay of individuals.

The sun was setting, the orange and yellow clouds transitioning into a deep red, the sun falling asleep slowly. The sinner's shadow befell on the faces of the frowning populace, some spitting flagitious words on the soon beheaded man, while some threw rocks and pebbles on the sinner, he felt every spike, as of needles descended on his body. Nonetheless he barely flinched at the plethora of rocks meant to cause him harm.

“SAY YOUR PRAYERS, HEATHEN! FOR YOU HAVE COMMITTED THE GREATEST SIN KNOWN TO MAN. . . THE SIN OF UNFAITHFULNESS TOWARDS THE MOST HIGH!”

More uproars of fury ascended from the villagers, all of them demanding for the show that came for.

The executioner stood tall, his broad shoulders uplifting the heavy axe, the one which was the weapon of utter destruction, sent to separate man from his body forever.

After more cries erupting, and whooping of the impatient crowd, the man was coerced to lay his head flatly against the wooden stand. His heart thumped erratically, his breathing quickened, and tears gushed out of his pale face. There is no maker he is doomed to meet, there is nobody whom he looks up to.
This poor unbeliever, some say that his poisoned words have reached priests, and his so-called theories of the possibility of no god scared the people, he preached these ugsome statements, these tales were buried into tales told at bedtime by the individuals who believed in his blasphemy.

As the executioner drew his axe, every living soul held their breath and when the axe violently kissed the neck of the sinner, his head fell to the ground, a thud head before it rolled slowly before stopping.

That was the end of the dead man, his tongue immobile to tell the tales of blasphemy.

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little children creep into their bed at night, their parents pulling the blankets to their head, and whispered to them the tale of the unbeliever who had his head sliced off. the children shivered in their bed, praying to the God above, to guide their faith. but deep within them, they have an inkling of doubt that these prayers would never be heard, because there is no one to actually listen.

DEAD MEN HAVE NO MORE TALES TO TELL.

YOU HAVE KILLED THE FIRST SOUL THAT COMMITTED THE FIRST CRIME.

YOU MERCILESS MONSTER.

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THE EXECUTIONER, AFTER TWO WEEKS, was found in his bed, bathed in his own blood, with the ripped pieces of his Bible scattered around his corpse, his eyes gouged out and lips plucked. But the most severe — his fingers were chopped and fed into his mouth, like meat from animals.
He had a lighter in his hands, and what was noticed, very carefully, was the charred edges of the Bible.

Someone remembers the beheaded man speaking shortly with his doom-maker, whispering words that was not heard from corners.

DO NOT TEST THE CREATOR, THE ONE WHO GAVE YOU BREATH, OR ELSE YOU WILL END UP LIKE THE BEHEADED MAN WHO TORMENTED HIS SUFFERER TILL DEATH.

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can you see how a darling has been killed?