Free The Last Execution by Jesper Wung-Sung

they snap up expectations and vibrations, as if we were attending a feast! As if royalty were expected. The entire town seems to be assembled here! Even a man-hating rat would feel lonesome in town today—“Bah! I’ll have to find another town to skulk in today!!”
    But is the execution the most important thing of all? Not necessarily so. People are many-sided beings. Folk turn to look in every possible and impossible way, with an eye for a pretty lass, a choice remark, a thrifty trade, or a quick fight. A swarm of birds, like a pointed arrow headed for milder skies, would think: “What is the entire town doing down there? I cannot make head nor tail of this crowd. That these beings should be the creators of grand buildings and lofty poetry is absurd. In an anthill there is order in chaos, but that down there is sheer madness! Head south, dear friends, head south!”
    The poet puts the notebook in his pocket, only to fish it up again immediately. His eyes are on stalks, yet buried in his head. He sees everything, feels everything. And writes. He stares, rakes it all in, and yet tunes ever inward: He is the metronome. The real music is composed by seismic interactions of the organs in his body. Is the heart hammering harder? Are the lungs keeping pace? Does the stomach contract? Does it hurt down below? What say you, blood? Does the liver object?
    He draws out to the right and finds a little mound to perch on. He is swept up by his scribbles; they fill the page with words, like children crowding in, covering the ground of Gallows Hill.
    The poet sees, absorbs, and writes:
    No man could falter on Gallows Hill today—not for lack of food and drink. Bread is on sale, and one particularly perilous temptation—raisin bread—is selling well. Ouch! And everything can be washed down with a drink, especially amidst the ale club of males, as you could call those men gathered around the well-stocked innkeeper, who is making sure you can find warmth in a brandy or a good, strong beer. Here the mood has been jolly for a good while; folk are happily falling in sync with a person they possibly know.
    A flock of children are engaged in a game so vicious it makes your head spin and your stomach churn: Call it a game one more time! Like Roman gladiators of former times, they seem to rip at one another savagely; to the eye of the observer, a genuine flensing of flesh, but for the zeal with which they fling themselves into the midst of their playmates. Threaded into one another like many-limbed monsters, they pull, tear, and claw away. That legs and arms don’t snap like pencils is a mystery. A single bloody nose (apart from red ears) is the only visible sign of injury. That they are obviously enjoying themselves—despite scornful, devilish laughter—is beyond all comprehension.
    The children’s wayward behavior makes the poet dizzy, but he’s still scribbling away, nose deep in his papers.
    All the while he is keeping watch for a particular young lady. The poet had met her at a dinner party the night before. She is the daughter of a famous painter, and sang so beautifully. Her performance was late in the evening. Johanna is her name. They’d only exchanged a few words, but there was a natural bond between them, the poet felt sure of it. The pale skin, those blue eyes—and she had read his work. I thanked her, and her cheeks darkened red.
    The poet gets up to look. The brandy plays its part in making his blood rush. As a rule, he does not drink much, but his bedeviled, ever-faithful companion—toothache—has followed in his wake. It’s a painful, merciless rendezvous, which is dampened somewhat by the strong drink, but Johanna—so fine, so light—would make it disappear completely!
    Now a ripple goes through the crowd. Brandy sloshes over his papers, and the poet must save what can be saved. Now? Yes. Now the condemned is coming!
    And now they form. Now the words