Poet's Last Laugh

A medieval flash fiction.

The scene before me felt unreal. The smoke cloud of maroon bits cast an aura of death around me. The splatter was beyond my expectations, but I embraced the chaos.

Mother, I heard your voice in my head telling me that death is sacred. Now that death surrounds me, I see that I was right all along. Death is messy, chaotic, and inevitable.

If you don’t laugh, you cry. If you don’t accept, you lay in a bed of blissful ignorance until the ax falls upon you. The executioner doesn’t pick favorites. No, the King holds the power of the Gods in his hand.

I saw many go in front of me. The line of men and women marched one by one to the scaffold. The pristine metallic reaper landed with an audible smash each time.

By order of his majesty, you are sentenced to die — they read those words and all I heard was you, mother. You told me life and death should be honored and respected, but what of this?

The King is life. 
The King is death. 
The King is the most sacred being in all the land.

The blade blinded me as they forced me to kneel. Bits and bobs of my forebears strewn in front of me. I lay my head on the wet sticky curved wood. My shoulders fit nicely in its cradle.

No. Death doesn’t scare me, Mother. I burst into laughter. The crowd pauses in confusion.

I speak loudly “Do you think my head will roll the farthest?”

I must admit the laughter from the crowd brought me peace as the white lining of my shirt bled red.

Yes. Laughter in the face of death is a gift. For fear and ignorance kill you before the blade descends.