Young Writers Society

A stale breeze swept coarse through the City borough, lacerating streets riddled with debris. Upon the few steeples which refrained from collapse the sun rested, casting a blood orange glow over a torn Paris. A glow which seeped like the sweat and grime of revolution into the gaps between stained cobbles. Lone corpses, haphazardly scattered amongst the rubble, fermented in the twilight warmth as flies gathered to glut upon lost souls. Such is the revolution of the people, for it is the people who bear the turmoil of war, the people who sacrifice for supposed reforms, the people whose rotten flesh lay tattered to the rats, slain by the fire of oppression. Soon the light would lay to rest over the stricken city, yet no rest came to the turmoil.

Six gongs the cathedral bells chimed to the square. Timed notes evanesced into the receding daylight unregarded by the chaos unfurling beneath. All attention lay acute upon a stock improvised stage and its stark caricatures. A gaunt mahogany frame commanded both the raised platform and the will of the crowd, its hollow, blackened shadow hanging over the mob like Death's void. Collaborative shouts were dictated by the consecutive swipes of a sharpened blade through the pungent air. The wretched reek of burning powder seemed not to soothe their appetite for destruction and amassed, they chanted for the blood of retribution.

Ten minutes past read the clock tower, a display shared by an ornate watch glistening in a gloves hand, its cold heart beating incessantly. Leather bound fingers sailed over the metallic casing, swiftly ceasing the timekeeper's motion. Once, he knew, it had been the possession of his father, an heirloom that never abandoned the grace of his side. Humbly he withdrew his hand to the decoratively stitched pocket of a sapphire tailcoat and carefully restored the silver accessory to it. A sluggish shudder awoke him from his poignant trance and he set sore eyes upon the smouldering heavens above him. Hawks adorned the cathedral spires, witness to the deliverance below, and he wondered if they understood the justice upon the ground, he the adjudicator.

Gradually, the mob grew tense for a built up release; a spark dashing upon the fuse to an inevitable climax. What fanatical hunger lay behind these ragged colours? A thirst for the tenets of constitution glorified by the disputes of Liberty, Equality and Fraternity. Such a declaration perverted by those whose eyes gaze only upon the throne. Liberty; the guillotine stood free to command. Equality; fellowship split by the blade of accusation. Fraternity; brother divided in resolution. All reflected in besmirched flags, streaked with scum and blood. Only a distorted society could find hope in such an emblem; a society on the brink of annihilation.

He scanned the fervent gathering through sore, swollen eyes, edged with salty tears. Men, women, children he all saw; observers to grotesque events. A dagger pressed through the rough hemp of his tattered garment urged him forth to his cue in the vile theatre. A flare of light darkened his vision, until his surroundings formed like a dreamy haze upon the stage. He glanced to blemished hands, finding them charred and dry with filth, shaking from the chill of abhorrence. An authoritative drawl severed his pondering and to the swarm of people his "crimes" were proclaimed, each whimsical action governing appalled howls. He raised his head and eyed the towering figure of his executioner; a remorseless demon. "L'ange de la Mort" those who saw sense to perceive past his democratic facade christened him. The patches of velvet blood stained upon his uniform, he wore as medals, shimmering against his crest. The strains by which this malevolent corruption abides were not for false citizenship, but for his thirst for power. One final fleeting glimpse he caught of "L'ange" before being locked into the hellish device; a sapphire tailcoat and a silver clockwork breathing in a gloved hand. The Reaper's Adjudicator.

What was it the people saw in these mindless massacres? No justice could be derived from the slaughter of innocence, the rush of the scythe, the elimination of all "evils". In a single flashing moment, the angular blade rang, falling to a merciless demise. A monstrous roar, fuelled by the joy of vengeance, evoked from the rose haze. Perhaps, if they knew the terror-stricken thoughts lost in the limp head rolling awkwardly across the stage, they would not see victory. Life's scarlet essence dripped solemnly down the frame, etching the tale into the knots of the wood, tainting a bloody hue. A young woman broke forth from the crowd, her eyes adorned with tears of loss, her tongue with begs. Only the vehement crack of flintlocks answered her pleas and she collapsed, her slight stature falling lifeless to the stones. With haste, a ravenous pack engulfed the corpse, tearing apart fresh limbs. Earthly possessions fed the growing havoc as her lame head became impaled for display. Raised above the revolution, she stared poignantly into the light as if awaiting a better peace. Such is the will of the people. Such is the people's revolution.