The Firing Squad by Samuel Dodson
Shadows cast on the wall of execution linger after their host figure has moved on. They cling to the embrace of death, filtered through the smoke like nicotine.
Sound in the yard is dictated by the wall alone. It provides the ethereal una corda ambience for executively commissioned killing.
The soldier had never set his gaze upon Monet. Youth slipped from his eyes, giving way to the sadness of experience. He studied his reflection, distorted by the curvature of the gun barrel which may not hold a bullet, before turning his gaze towards a dark morning sky.
The prisoner’s face was etched with tattoo ink of time, which seemed to fade as it caught a rare glance of sunlight from a breaking dawn. They made him stand up straight as they removed his leather boots. It reminded him of his mother. His lips shivered with the thoughts of a mind facing its end. There isn’t any world but this one.
You’re wrong, I’ve seen a world that is full of calm.
Then you’ve seen something I never will.
Sometimes I think I was dreaming.
Last night I remembered by father when he was dying. His face shrunken and grey. I asked him if he was afraid. He just shook his head. I was afraid to touch the death I saw in him. I couldn’t imagine that, couldn’t think how it would be when I died; knowing that this breath was the last I would ever draw.
The prisoner unfolded an envelope he had held for many years and handed it to the staff sergeant whose clipped beard echoed his precise time keeping.
“A last request.”
Writing which did not belong to the prisoner depicted a phrase which the men of the firing squad could not decipher.
Vi veri, veniversum vivus vici.
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