The Last Prophet

For Jennafina



I am dead.

My execution is tomorrow and I know what to expect. My hands will be tied and I will be hooked to a wagon, where I will be dragged on my belly in front of thousands of jeering people. Some were once my friends. Then, after my body has been broken, they will torture me to death. And there will be cameras everywhere and newscasters around me will cluck and cluck and wonder how something terrible like this could have happened. How could such a promising boy become so much trouble?

How indeed.

The noise is getting louder outside of my cell and they are yelling, “Kill him, kill him!” They call me a liar, a devil, the antichrist. They say that I am evil and God will condemn me to hell forever and I will never be able to escape. But I am not afraid. I only told the truth.

They didn’t understand.

The policemen are laughing with each other. They are watching TV, imagining their faces plastered on the screen. They will be there soon enough, giving interviews to reporters. I know what they will say. They will say that I was one unrecognizable face among many and then they will describe at length how they captured me. How I struggled to be free, and yet they managed to beat me down anyway. I will be a coward.

I do not mind. It is not my face that matters. It is my actions. I drum my fingers on my chair, watching the men laugh. They are happy. One is standing on a chair, giving off an imaginary toast of champagne. Still others are reciting their scripts to imaginary, understanding, reporters. Only one of them is quiet. He is staring at me with hollow eyes. I recognize him. He is the one who found my body.

I gave it to him.

When he sees me look at me, he nods his head wordlessly, his lips growing tight. He is young, but dark shadows curl round his face and he looks old, older than ever. But as I watch him, a blush darkens his cheeks and he lowers his eyes to the floor, ashamed.

“How could you do this?” he asks, when he is sure the others will not notice him. “How could you let this happen?”

“Come to me,” I whisper.

He shakes his head.

The noises outside grow and the policemen are frightened. Their bodies stiffen as they look at their security cameras, watching the mob of people grow and grow, lighting torches and screaming for justice. The policemen turn to each other slowly before finally turning towards me.

They talk.

Their voices and hands tremble and their words continue endlessly, but I know what they want. They want to bring me out and force me to go to a different cell, where they think I will be much safer. Where they will be much safer. They ask me what I think.

What can I say?

I tell them that I do not care for my safety very much, otherwise, why would I be here? But before I can finish, they kick me in the stomach. I fall, winded, and try to stand up. But they only crunch their fat boots on my hands and twist the tread on my fingers.

I scream.

I cannot help it. It is funny how much the pain hurts. The torture never ends – I know that now. This thought makes me laugh, even as tears stream down my face. It will just continue on and on and…

The policemen kick me out of the cell. They want me to walk. I tell them I can’t. But they only kick me again and tell me that, if I do not walk, I will die. And death is bad. I try to agree with them, telling them how much I ache and how I wish I could just stop, but they only kick me again.

They do not understand.

The noise comes closer and a window is broken. The mob is outside, their shouts louder than ever. They are talking about justice. They want justice. They want peace.

The policemen hesitate at these words, their faces white. The mob sounds close, closer than ever, and a chant breaks out among them. They are calling the policemen sinners, servants of the devil, Satanists. All because of me.

Only one policeman stops completely. His face is white and pinched, his eyes wider than they should be. He glances at me and then back at the mob, his expression so torn that I feel sorry for him. The policeman next to him gives him an order, but he doesn’t hear. Instead, he staggers to the closest window and, before anyone can stop him, he jumps out, into the arms of the mob.

The glass shatters and he is gone, amidst a shower of a thousand glittering prisms. His comrades rush to the broken window and yell and plead for him to come back, but I know it is too late. The mob finds him. They kill him and all we can hear are his screams. He has died. He is dead. And yet, his screams seem to echo on and on and the policemen stop, their faces petrified in fear. They are starting to realize the truth, and their hands are shaking. But their boots are stronger and one is thrust into my stomach. A policeman tells me that he wants me to walk.

I tell him I can’t.

They decide that I am to blame. If I were dead, I could not cause this trouble. If I were dead, then they would never be dead. They would never die. One man suggests that they just let the mob get me, let the mob kill me, but others disagree. They want to see me executed, surrounded by cameras and sympathetic reporters. There is an argument and as it grows more intense, their voices rise to match the cacophony outside.

Except it isn’t outside anymore.

The mob is pounding on the door, trying to get through. A rock sails into a window, followed by another. A hush sweeps across the room.

“I will carry him.”

The voice frightens me. It is calm and soothing and said with such an assertive tone that the argument dies at once. I look, and once more I see the man. The man who found my body.

I had given it to him.

The policemen step away from him as he comes closer to me. He grimaces as he cradles me in his arms, and slowly, slowly, very slowly, he hoists me up on his shoulders. I am heavy, but he does not shake under my weight. Instead, he stands taller, his head erect. I nuzzle my face on his uniform. He is alive, wonderfully alive underneath and fear makes his veins throb, their sounds echoing in my ears. I smile and laugh. He asks me why. I lean closer to him.

“I love you.”

He nearly drops me, but he only grits his teeth and starts to walk. The policemen follow him timidly. It is an odd procession. The policemen keep looking over their shoulders, afraid of what is behind them. One is crying. The rest are trying to not to. They can hear their dead comrade screaming in their ears. He is still screaming.

A minute passes, and then another. Then the world splits. A door is knocked down and then the mob closes in. There is screaming and the policemen rush away, pinning us against the wall. We cannot move. We are trapped.

But the man holding me doesn’t let me drop. Instead, he closes his eyes tightly and whimpers. I know what he is thinking. He is thinking he will die and that there will be nothing left. But he is not afraid of death. He is afraid of nothing.

The mob is coming closer and there is no escape. The policemen will die – he will die. He will die and his body will be broken and then there will be no turning back. He will be dead. He murmurs something about his wife and children. About how much they’ll miss him. About how much he’ll miss them. I lean closer to him and let my fingers brush past his ear.

“I love you.”

He looks at me, tears in his eyes and opens his mouth to speak, but the sound dies on his lips. He looks through me and then he understands. He knows everything now. There is nothing more to be said. He understands.

And yet, he cries.

The mob comes closer and they kill him. They shoot him, once, twice, seven times thinking that he is me and I am he. And he falls, his limp body crashing on the floor, still cradling my dead body in his arms. The mob laughs and tramples over us, racing towards the other policemen.

And then they are gone.

They have left my body and I am surrounded by the blood of my fallen guardian. I curl up to be more fully in his arms. His blood is still warm. And his body still feels so wonderfully alive that I can scarcely breathe. But he is dead. He has died. And it is time for me to join him and welcome him back. And to hold him in my arms and protect him, just as he has done for me.

I am dead.

Snoink wrote:For Jennafina


I am dead.

My execution is tomorrow and I know what to expect. My hands will be tied and I will be hooked to a wagon, where I will be dragged on my belly in front of thousands of jeering people. Some were once my friends. Then, after my body has been broken, they will torture me to death. And there will be cameras everywhere and commentary on the news and the brains around me will cluck and cluck and wonder how something terrible like this could have happened. How could such a promising boy become so much trouble?

"and the brains around me will cluck and cluck." Is that how it is? That sentence makes my mind go 'huh?'
How indeed.

The noise is getting louder outside of my cell and they are yelling, “Kill him, kill him!” There is a lynch mob starting up, and the police are worried. They do not want them to kill me yet. Otherwise, they will not get to smile and wave on TV, looking so dignified and honorable. That is important to them.

It is not death that I am afraid of. It is the press. Before I die, they will ask me questions about what made me do it, and they will talk talk talk so much that their heads will spin and they will not be able to hear me or my words, even. And, when I die, they will shake their heads and say that don’t understand. They never understand. They will never understand.

That to they.

Not that it matters. Nothing matters very much anymore.

The crowd is getting noisier and the police are frightened now. They want bring me out and force me to go to a different cell, where they say I will be much safer. I tell them that I do not care for my safety very much, otherwise, why would I be here? But they only kick me in the stomach. And when I am down, they crunch their fat boots on my hands and twist the tread on my fingers.

"They want to bring me out." Missing 'to'.

I scream.

I cannot help it. It is funny being dead and still being able to feel pain. The torture never ends – I know that now. This thought makes me laugh, even as tears stream down my face. The policemen look at each other before kicking me out of the cell. They want me to walk. I tell them I can’t. But they only kick me again and tell me that, if I do not walk, I will die. And death is bad. I try to agree with them, but they only kick me again.

They are deaf.

The noise is coming closer and a window is broken. One of the policemen panic and run away. The lynch mob gets him. They kill him and his screams echo in the station. He is dead. He died. And yet, his screams seem to echo on and the policemen in the station stop, their faces petrified in fear. They are starting to realize the truth, and their hands are shaking. But their boots are stronger than ever and one is thrust into my stomach. He wants me to walk.

I tell him I can’t.

They stare at me. One suggests that they just let the mob get me, but several others disagree. They want to see me die. Finally one hoists me on his shoulder. He is wonderfully alive and fear makes his veins throb, their sound echoing in my ear. I smile and laugh. He asks me why. I lean closer to his ear.

“I love you.”

He nearly drops me, but he stops and keeps on walking, the policemen following him. It is an odd procession. The policemen are nervous and keep looking back. They still hear their comrade screaming in their ears. He is still screaming.

I laugh.

They hear another noise. It is the sound of the door being knocked down. There is more screaming and the policemen shake. Some try to rush past the one holding me, and we are pinned against the wall as the policemen rush away, forgetting everyone else. They don’t want to die. Death is bad.

But the man holding me doesn’t let me drop. Instead, he closes his eyes tightly and whimpers. I know what he is thinking. He is thinking he will die and that there will be nothing left. But he is not afraid of death. He is afraid of nothing.

The mob is coming closer and there is no escape. The policemen will die – he will die. He will die and his body will be broken and then there will be no turning back. He will be dead. He murmurs something about his wife and children. About how much they’ll miss him. I lean closer to him and let my fingers brush past his ear.

“I love you.”

He looks at me, tears in his eyes and opens his mouth to speak, but the sound dies on his lips. He looks through me and then he understands. He knows everything now. There is nothing more to be said. My mission is complete. He understands.

And yet, he cries.

The mob comes closer and they kill him. They shoot him, once, twice, seven times thinking that he is me and I am he. And he falls, his limp body crashing on the floor, still cradling my dead body in his arms. The mob laughs and shoots me several times, just for fun, but they cannot hurt me. I am dead. They cannot kill me. They trample over us and reach the other policemen, killing them as well. And then, just as quickly as they come, they retreat, still laughing and jeering.

They are gone.

They have left my body and I am surrounded by the blood of my fallen guardian. I curl up to be more fully in his arms. His blood is still warm. And his body still feels so wonderfully alive that I can scarcely breathe. But he has died. And it is time for me to join him and welcome him back. And to hold him in my arms, just as he has done for me.

I am dead.

I got a little confused trying to figure out who was talking. Nothing your editing powers wont fix. Otherwise... I loved it. Any particular reason this is for Jennafina? Seems a little odd ><

My critiqueing powers are not very great when I am exhausted. It has been a long day. I promise to come back and give it a proper critique.

Unfortunately, I really hate this. Almost every single sentence is simply and uses standard syntax -- "I did this" and "Then this happened." I would have expected a higher level of craft from someone like you! The paragraphs were incredibly hard to get through. They bored me.

I think the first couple of paragraphs are probably the best parts of the piece -- this is where the story shows some promise.

I think the problem is maybe you have tried to be stylistic and use this tone for the type of story, but in the end, there's very little interest in the language you are using -- sentences like "The policemen will die – he will die. He will die and his body will be broken and then there will be no turning back. He will be dead." He will die and then he will be dead? Read that back to yourself.

Here's another example:

They want me to walk. I tell them I can’t. But they only kick me again and tell me that, if I do not walk, I will die. And death is bad. I try to agree with them, but they only kick me again.

Small, simple sentences. The effect can be useful, sometimes -- jarring, if you will, when placed between longer and more complex expressions. However, when you use it again and AGAIN and AGAIN it gets very frustrating. "And death is bad?" That's awful writing.

The even shorter sentences that interesect between the paragraphs on their own are also overused -- a couple of times is okay, but once again, you've used it too much and it's lost any effect.

Moving onto the plot and characters -- there wasn't much here. I think there many different ways this story could have been written. The problem is when you have a story like this -- when really the story is at the end of the character's story, when everything has happened before the start -- then a little explanation is needed. However, it is vague throughout the whole piece. Nothing is tied down properly. This, coupled with the style of language in the story, really killed it for me. It seemed like I was reading someone's first ever story.

However, there were obvious signs of a better writer shining through -- I know you were trying to make the death dramatic, emotional, to make the reader feel what this character is feeling -- but it didn't work. Towards the end, it seemed to come through a little better -- the lines about the fallen guardian were good.

I just think this story requires something else.

Were you writing simply to make it seem as is the narrator was young or mad or not very educated? He/her tone was sort of like a child.
V.good. But keep trying to improve it.
Charlotte

Yeah, that was the impression I sort of picked up on... Something like that. I don't think it's always just a given that fragments and same-syntax sentences are bad, it depends on how they're used.

The only wrong bits I could find were in this sentence:

And, when I die, they will shake their heads and say that don’t understand.

I think you should get rid of the comma between "And" and "when", and add "they" in between "that" and "don't".

This was ok, but confusing and repeptetive. I won't list all the grammatical errors, but all the same it needs a good edit. You also need to make it clear about why he is alive and yet dead, and he loves the police person. I just found that confusing. I also agree with the other reviewers.

Thanks for the trial by fire, guys. I really do appreciate it.

I gave it a major overhaul and, while I am far from suggesting that it is free of any errors, or even the last draft, it is hopefully much easier to follow and I think some of the major plot holes from the previous version are better explained as well.

Anyway, keep the comments coming. I want to make this a good story. ^_^

Snoink wrote:
When he sees me look at me,

Just the one thing that stuck out (grammar and punctuation arent my strong point) I rather thing this should be

"when he sees me look at him" no?

Other than that this was brilliant, I really liked the entire piece, the tone of finality and quiet acceptance was brilliant. I also enjoyed your projection of the relationship between the policeman and the boy.

Very nice indeed =D

*Hearts* Le Penguin.

Well.

That defiantely left me clinging to every word. I really understood how that boy must have felt.

The only thing I found (I didn't really pay much attention to any mistakes, I was too tired, ) was that it was kind of confusing. I have no idea why the boy loves the police officer, and I'm not sure how he was dead through the whole thing, and then died again.... You might want to clarify that slightly, but not too much. I like that it makes you think about it, but I think it makes you think a little too much.

Anyway, now I'm really curious. Do you think you could PM me if you edit this? I really want to know now! Or you could just put what that stuff means on this thread if you don't want to keep poor ol' me waiting.

I don't know. It was a gripping story, and well told. The pace is just right. But there' s no description. No stone prison walls, no characters with blond or black hair, none of it. Revise that!

This is much better now. I have one problem, and that is: What period in history were you planning for this to take place? When I first read it, I was picturing some sort of mideval witch burning, but then you describe the guards watching TV. But you also have the croud carrying torches..... hmm. Maybe some clarification? I also found the events to be too straitforward. First this happened, then this happened. Maybe make it a little more showing and less telling?

Anyway, I feel that this has a lot of potential. I would still say that it needs a little more work, but it is very interesting and it really keeps the reader entertained.

Edited! Thank you once more for all your comments... they were very helpful.

Hopefully, I made the relationship with the boy and the policeman a little bit more clearer. Thanks for telling me about it. Tell me if it's still confusing. ^_^;;

Canislupis>> the setting is actually in an alternative reality. So while they have TVs and stuff, there are descriptions that sound medieval. This is because I wanted to have a feeling of medieval witch-hunting in a modern setting. Hopefully that wasn't too confusing...

Anyway! Tell me how you like it now.

I liked this, but I was confused the entire time. Was the narrator dead? Was he alive? Was he a ghost?

...Wow, Snoink. Just... wow. Very simply put. That was incredible. I love the recurring one-liners. They have so much punch. There's a lot of beautifully portrayed emotion in this. Well done, really.

Although, I'm curious; what did the narrarot do?

Only one error that I could find:

Still others are reciting their scripts to imaginary, understanding, reporters.

That second comma feels extraneous since you're only listing two traits.

The ever-amazing Snoink amazes again.

-St. Razorblade
The Official YWS Pirate

I enjoyed reading this, but at times I was a little confused at who was talking or narrating. Other then that, it had a solid story except for the dedication. Why Jennafina, any particular reason?

-Joel-