Short Stories

Marie’s Last Words

This article is satirical in nature, and is in no way factual, but is for humoristic purposes only.


By Carrie Ratkevich, Guest writer

As the prisoner cart creaks slowly through the stone-cobbled streets of Paris, I think back on all that has been stolen from me.

I was beautiful once; the queen of the most pow­erful country in the world. My king lost his head eight months ago.

My children were ripped from me and my oldest son tortured.

Even my dignity was stolen with a charge of incest. I have reached the square.

The metallic smell of blood is as thick as the crowd that cheers at my disgrace. I dismount my shameful carriage into a barrage of insults and rotten fruit.

They would love to see me hang my head in dis­honor but I will not. I will die as I was born, with my head held high.

As I ascend the platform, slick with the blood of traitors both real and imagined, I am almost relieved because I will soon join my beloved in eternity.

While they strap me to the National Razor, I smile and whisper softly, “Let them eat their own.”

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