The Joke — Short Story (2015) —

In the damp and gloomy vaults of the Bastille there dwelt a prisoner. By guilt or by misfortune he had come there — none could say for certain, nor did it matter any longer. For half a year had he made his peace with fate, awaiting the hour when sentence should be fulfilled. He waited and pondered, pondered and waited.

At length, one morn, the executioner himself appeared before him. The hour of death was set for dawn. A proud death it was to be by firing squad.

As custom dictated, they granted him a final meal, a sheet of paper, a quill, and a pot of ink. Yet he would not eat… his soul found no appetite. All night he sat in thought, his eyes fixed upon the whiteness of the page, musing on death and bidding the world farewell. Only an hour before the appointed time did he rouse himself, and with a trembling hand, he penned a single poem. He wished to leave nothing else behind.

The time had come.

They led him to the courtyard and placed him by the wall. When offered the blindfold, he refused it. Instead of a final word — silence; and when the officer proffered him a last smoke, he answered only with a weary, indifferent gaze.

The marksmen took their places.

“Take aim!”

Only the whisper of leaves could be heard. The wind stirred faintly.

“Fire!”

The condemned man closed his eyes, but instead of volleys, a peal of laughter burst forth.

“It was just a joke, my friend!” cried the officer with a smile. “Thou hast been granted amnesty, owing to recent tumults in the parliament. Thou art free! The gates are open… go forth and rejoice in life!”

The freed man wiped the cold sweat from his brow and demanded the return of his poem. The officer obliged, handing him the crumpled page. Without so much as a glance, the prisoner cast it into the flames.

“Why burn it?” asked the officer in surprise. “’Twas a fine verse, truly.”

“Forgive me, but a world wherein such jokes exist is unworthy of poetry.”

— 18 July, 2015