amirabella
I carefully laid out the framework, each piece set with slow precision- carefully, carefully- and sat back to survey my handiwork. The plan was set, each figure in their place. The game began.
Being the mayor wasn't easy job. Stamp papers, listen to boring people, stamp papers. One morning, I decided to do something to shake up the routine. Something the town will never forget. And, let's just say, they never did.
"What's all that racket?!" The old woman screamed. The two boys looked away from the dead body with a start, and exchanged glances. The night wasn't over after all, they guessed.
Back to the daily grind, the executioner thought with a sigh. Then, he heaved the axe into the air. It glinted in the sun -only once- before crashing down through the sinew of the prisoner's neck.
I could only ask him one question. Who's ever heard of that? A reporter only allowed to ask one question. And so I asked him, "Why can I only ask you one question?" Not such a great question, in retrospect.
As I walked down the street, I couldn't help but to notice that the buildings weren't normal. The architecture seemed warped somehow, twisted and wrung by some diabolical hand. I quickened my pace.
I slouched into the chair, putting my head in my hands. Why? I asked the universe, but without saying a word. Why is it always me?
I don't know what I'm doing here. In a place where everyone is the same, I stand out like a sore thumb. But why? Is it my clothes? My voice? My personality? Or is it just the state of my mind? I feel so foreign.