Fire
The following is a piece from a writing group where we're given a prompt and then nine minutes to write whatever comes to mind. Just for fun, I'm posting some of them here:
Prompt: Fire
“Ready. Aim.”
“Hold on, hold on,” cried out the marksman on the far left. There were nine of them in a line, all pointing their high caliber rifles at my center of mass. Only five of them have live rounds, I'm told. The other four have blanks, so none of the marksmen know for sure if they fired the shot that killed me.
The ropes on my wrists chafed as I squirmed uncomfortably. I squinted into the sun as the errant marksman opened the bolt and fiddled with his firearm. What is the problem? I thought to myself. Is this guy for real? Can they not just do it with eight? Surely four live rounds will get the job done. It's not like any of these guys are going to miss.
“Okay, I think I got it, said the executioner on the left.” My left, not theirs. Stage left, I suppose you could say. “Yeah, I think I'm good,” he said, but his voice was less than confident.
The warden rolled his eyes, but he once again raised his right arm high. “Ready,” he began again.
“No, wait, sorry,” said the same marksman as before. “No, this is all jammed up.” He resumed wiggling the bolt.
The warden slumped his shoulders. I honestly felt bad for him. I'm sure he's got better things to do than babysit this incompetent executioner.
What a weird rule about the blanks, I thought to myself to kill the time. Why do these guys need to have a question in their mind whether they were the one who killed me? If they're willing to participate in this execution, surely they've made their peace with the taking of a human life. If they haven't, they have no business being on this firing line at all. Just cowgirl up, load your own gun, and accept the moral consequences of intentionally ending someone's life.
Also, I doubt being a member of the firing squad is a once in a lifetime kind of thing. If they're in the position that gets asked to do this, they probably get called out to every execution. If you've got a better than 50% chance of having a live round each time, then by the time you've done four or five of these you're all but guaranteed to have used deadly force. I mean, that's just math. So why bother with blanks? Why not just pump me full of nine live rounds? It just doesn't make any–
“Okay, I got it,” said the marksman.
“Fire,” cried the warden.
Prompt: Fire
“Ready. Aim.”
“Hold on, hold on,” cried out the marksman on the far left. There were nine of them in a line, all pointing their high caliber rifles at my center of mass. Only five of them have live rounds, I'm told. The other four have blanks, so none of the marksmen know for sure if they fired the shot that killed me.
The ropes on my wrists chafed as I squirmed uncomfortably. I squinted into the sun as the errant marksman opened the bolt and fiddled with his firearm. What is the problem? I thought to myself. Is this guy for real? Can they not just do it with eight? Surely four live rounds will get the job done. It's not like any of these guys are going to miss.
“Okay, I think I got it, said the executioner on the left.” My left, not theirs. Stage left, I suppose you could say. “Yeah, I think I'm good,” he said, but his voice was less than confident.
The warden rolled his eyes, but he once again raised his right arm high. “Ready,” he began again.
“No, wait, sorry,” said the same marksman as before. “No, this is all jammed up.” He resumed wiggling the bolt.
The warden slumped his shoulders. I honestly felt bad for him. I'm sure he's got better things to do than babysit this incompetent executioner.
What a weird rule about the blanks, I thought to myself to kill the time. Why do these guys need to have a question in their mind whether they were the one who killed me? If they're willing to participate in this execution, surely they've made their peace with the taking of a human life. If they haven't, they have no business being on this firing line at all. Just cowgirl up, load your own gun, and accept the moral consequences of intentionally ending someone's life.
Also, I doubt being a member of the firing squad is a once in a lifetime kind of thing. If they're in the position that gets asked to do this, they probably get called out to every execution. If you've got a better than 50% chance of having a live round each time, then by the time you've done four or five of these you're all but guaranteed to have used deadly force. I mean, that's just math. So why bother with blanks? Why not just pump me full of nine live rounds? It just doesn't make any–
“Okay, I got it,” said the marksman.
“Fire,” cried the warden.
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