Our Tradition

Anton is our hangman. Nobody knows who Anton is. If his look falls on you, you go to our gallows. Such is our law, and our way.

A man clasps my arm. It is Marco.

“I must find asylum,” Marco says. “Anton’s look has found my body. May I stay with you?”

“How do you know it was Anton?”

“His look was upon my body for too long.”

“I’m sorry. I cannot.”

“Oh God.” Marco runs.

I stand still, smoking my cigar, and watch a crowd run by and grab Marco, carrying him to our gallows.

A man clasps my arm and looks into my soul. I know it is Anton and pull away. I run, but soon I’m caught.

I’m at our gallows, Marco at my right.

“If you had hid my body...” Marco sobs. “I might... You might...”

Trap doors drop. My body falls. Such is our tradition.

The End

[Note: This was a short short story written for a writing contest I didn't win. The rules were that it should not contain the letter "e" and not be more than 150 words.]