The executioner tries to steady his shaking hands, his little bony body turning blue in the midwinter's cold. He's too weak, and he's ill; you can see it written all over his hollow, lifeless face.
He stares blankly at the silent crowd before him as he lifts his rather heavy axe. He raises it high above his head, his bones and the thick handle ironic in proportion. Then, his face transforms, and his breathing becomes more labored.
He eyes the object of attention, and then.... Another head rolls.
And the crowd cheers.
YOU ARE READING
The Most Random Book Ever
DiversosA book of random stories that I'll probably never finish. Some of them I wrote when I was nine and ten, so that explains the poor writing skills.
