<!— /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:”Times New Roman”; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:”“; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:”Times New Roman”;} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:”“; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:”Times New Roman”;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} —> My name is Meredith Mason.

            I scraped my way into the crowd, feeling sun-heat sting my neck. Eventually, my scraping had found me in a good enough place to watch the hanging that was about to occur; a nice angle of the executioner and the death-lever that would, in less than 10 minutes, kill a convicted criminal. In that moment, I had reflected on these wrongdoer’s fates, as well as the fates of all hangmen. I decided then that a wrongdoer is not punished for wrongdoing, but rather, a wrongdoer is punished for being caught doing wrong. I then mused whether or not I could get away with something like this, and if I am not punished, whether or not I am doing wrong at all. More importantly, if I believe I am doing right, though my action is legally wrong, am I an enemy to people who manage and control? Does a hangman know why he wears his noose? This is something the crowd’s audible growing hunger for death interrupted and jostled from my skull. This is not the only time I would discuss this with myself, though the thought was born here. 1:25. I read my timepiece and put it back in my vest pocket. Too hot for a vest, I thought, as my brain trickled back into my body and the sun-sting was felt again.

            The jailers were on time, at least.

            They carried with them a mustached man, shackled, feet dragging behind him, wearing an all tan suit with no jacket, which had obviously been taken from him at the jail. I saw a thick watch chain dip out of his vest pocket, which also told me why his right eye and lip were slightly swollen and bloody, radiating the purples and yellows and tinges of red that consistently come post-fight. I then debated why and how the watch was in his possession, and upon analysis, I decided that the watch was in fact his, and that he fought to keep it. The officers at the jailhouse probably took the jacket from him. The fact that he was clothed the way that he was told me that he was probably captured either early this morning or late last night, and that for some reason they needed to kill him as soon as possible; the most likely reason being that he was an extremely dangerous person. A long-time enemy of the state would have a drawn out hearing, and probably a hanging more festive than this one. The crowd for this event consisted of hardcore death fanatics, old women, and teenaged boys who managed to evade the grasps of their mothers and gather at the gallows near the outskirts of our dusty town.

            Our collective heart skipped when they began to drag him up the steps to the elevated wooden platform. His documents were being read by one of the jailers as he was being noose-fitted by the executioner. I had heard the sum of these words before, I keyed in only to the details. I heard:

“…Francis Ward…”

“…The destruction of the town of Mayella by fire, and the respective murders of its peaceful residents…”

            He had destroyed an entire town and still managed to keep his timepiece.

A new respect recolorized the bruises sitting fat on his face and I saw a slight shock of a smile crack his stone and tired visage. The tick was instantaneous and gone, however, the act was shattered. His eyes were still smiling as his deeds shot like lightning out of the mouth of the jailer into hot dry air and the hearts of the audience about to watch his last earthly shake.

            The jailer let silence hang, then spoke.

“Any last words, Francis Ward?”

            He spoke Ward’s name through gritted teeth and with spitting gravitas. He must’ve had relatives in Mayella.

            With a clean New York accent, Ward shot his words with clarity and precision.

“The sun may set unto the west, run white and dry as pearl, but to those who see the tocks of time, my tumor is the world!”

            Ward, by the end of his prose, could barely hold his teeth in his face, which had contorted into a wicked, proud smile. This was immediately cut off from our vision when a black-stained burlap sack was violently rammed over his head. His smile, and his last words, still rang above our heads and in our eyes. More piercing though, was the chuckle that emanated through the black bag. The laugh grew slightly and pushed out the remaining bits of verse and white-toothed smile from our brains. Even I was a little jarred; this man was obviously insane. Maybe he did not know he was doing wrong. Before a thought could form, I saw the executioner pull the lever, and it was done; laugh closed out with the sound of a broken neck. Like a thigh joint popping into place, only louder and sharper sounding; the way a snare drum rattles off into air after it’s tapped.

            Francis Ward was dead.

            So I turned around. It was hot, early, and I had just been fired from my job 3 days prior, so I had nothing to do for that day. I, 3 days ago, was an accountant in the office of a limestone quarry. However, I had been having an affair with the foreman’s oldest daughter, and suffered largely for it; the affair’s discovery a bad thing for the sake of my job, and my pre-existing marriage, with my wife leaving a not day after finding out. I was alone, and I had hoped that watching another man die in one of the many bi-weekly hangings that our town hosts would make me feel better. It did not, and I realized this as I walked. I kicked the dirt and the lighter of it clouded around my ankles, as if to tell me that I should stand still and give the dust respect enough to watch it settle. I disobeyed, and tracked on.

            As I approached the door to my room in the complex of apartments where I lived, I noticed movement behind the curtains that disallowed visual contact with outsiders and my quarters. I realized then that they weren’t doing a very good job. From the inside sounding out, I also heard the sound of my piano being played, and quite well at that. My pace crept up to a trot as I registered what these things were results of: someone was in my house. As I swung open the door, I thought that my eyes had suddenly decided to betray me, for the face that I saw swing it’s way toward me on a neck of bruised and broken bone was the face of the man who’s mustached white tombstone-toothed smile would have haunted me for at least another week. Sitting on a stool, carving notes out of my old piano. Francis Ward was back from the dead. What he said to me next was what made me lose control of my bowels…

            “Hey Mer, where’ve ya been? I’ve been waiting for ya!”