Unholy Trinity: Who Cries for the Executioner by Martin P. Fuller

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

Who cries for the executioner

They follow. Long lines of the silent. Never speaking, but always watching me.

I’d had to kill them. I’m the state executioner, paid to end their forfeited, judged lives. I comfort my soul with the knowledge some were murderers, thieves, rapists, vagabonds. 

It’s the others which haunt me. The women, the children I’ve killed. Their grey faces mouthing curses as they point to me, their killer. I cannot live with this and place my head in my own noose, jumping from the scaffold.

They watch no more, but I know they wait to meet me at the gates of Hell.

Burning desire

‘You will love me even in death’ was her curse, her screaming words a lament of pain, mixed with rage. 

Yet I’d loved her, cherished her. Turned a blind eye to her ungodly ractices. Then she rejected me, laughing at my proposal.

The laughter wounded and humiliated me.

So, I told the town about her deeds. Planted satanic evidence in her house. When she was convicted, I offered to ignite her pyre. I watched her burn. 

Afterwards, they found me in the smouldering embers, my skin charring as I kissed her partly cremated skull, my love for her finally rekindled.

Tales from the toolbox

I despise sloppy work, being precise, skilled, an artist and craftsman of extinction. 

My fees are reasonable, depending on the sentence requested. Inside my ‘special toy box’ is the simple long hafted axe, requiring strength and although it  requires proficiency to wield it. The double-handed sword is more efficient but not as awe inspiring. The garrot I find tedious, and multiple knife cuts death takes time. I charge accordingly. My secret passion is in the dark recesses of the box. A tinderbox for a good old-fashioned burning. Now there’s a spectacular execution.

I’m available for sanctioned executions and children’s parties. 

Martin P. Fuller

Martin P. Fuller lives in his shoebox house in West Yorkshire. He was in his previous exitances: –  a beer salesman, a pall bearer, a car delivery driver, and oh yes… a police officer for over 34 years. He started to write in 2013 after attending a creative writing class and since then has become a writing course junkie. 

Discovering his dark side, Martin has had a number of stories published in Trembling with Fear and several other anthologies including Deadcades published by Infernal Clock.

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