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Abigail: awful, awesome, awe-inspiring: never had I seen (nor heard, nor felt, nor known) such a feeling of comeliness or inexhaustible sheer thrill as the day at which the murderer got his punishment—after all he axed my wife’s head clean off—here shoulders with one arm while the other clutched at her necklace. Bastard, come here, come to me: try to take my head off my shoulders and grab my jewelry and we’ll see who wins, huh? Cacophony, I heard that night as I rode into the town, away on business and dearly anticipating my wife’s call; I heard, though, a scream—the cutting of something and the cutting of the air (as blades do when swung fast enough)—so I ran to the house, and opening the door I saw a body, unrecognizable and a head fresh off its shoulders and rolling toward me; it’s not like I wasn’t surprised, but instead of stopping and grieving I ran out the back door (I had entered from the front) and tried to find the brute who had taken her from me. “Dammit,” I yelled—my feet reluctant to move but my head willing and I tried to run the man down; I found him—well, it had to be him—crouched in a corner, an axe at his feet; the police then came (they ostensibly followed me) and we pulled him to his dark feet and drug his sorry dark face to the prison.

Epochal in his trial was that he’d been found with the murder weapon, and that I testified I saw him kill my wife (I had not, but I saw him running away from her, and that was good enough) and in no time, without consideration he was set to be hanged. Fabulous—well, it was good (nonetheless) at least justice was going to service this dark beast. Good at least that my wife could rest in piece: Abigail: you sweet woman, how you labored, how you loved, how I could only wish for one more time…. Hell he will go to; heaven Abigail has gone and I shall follow her, since our hearts are filled with love for the Lord, for His saving grace.

Interesting it was—interesting, I mean, was the execution: they had the dark beast paraded out on a cart, his arms tied to a piece of wood so they were separated; his head lay down in shame (I actually think he was crying!). Just as he entered, the boos and cursing spewed forth—I refrained though, being proper and well-educated as I am, and that I was just too intent on seeing the bastard take his ticket straight to hell. Kabala it seemed, though not secret, but ritualistic in a way and awesome in another; adept at its own ideals and times, barbaric, and pagan—though I guess Jesus was executed too, wasn’t he? Lead by a man with a black hood covering his face, the ceremony began. Macabre, I guess, but still it thrilled me, and it most certainly thrilled my friends and relatives and other on-lookers who came to watch the beast go. Near that hooded man lay the beast, his arms at his side and a hood (also) over his face; it was darker than his skin. Opulence it was to see my fiend go, so graphically, so awful through that he had to do what he did. Probably I should have been a little farther away, but it is too late now; the axe (how ironic!) came down and took his head off, clean off his shoulders similarly I can only assume to when he took my wife’s head clean off her shoulders. Quaint! Rarely had I undertook something of which I did not actively participate that drained me so. Splotch—it went, as the axe took the head; I had a splotch too, but that was wiped clean with the axe. Too bad he had to be crying as he went—but you know, so was I; I was crying, not for him (the bastard) but for Abigail, that she never got to finish her days in peace—just in pieces (oh dear, I’m struck with a macabre sense of humor, what has the beast done to me?). Ubiquitous was the feeling I got from the death, ubiquitousness from Abigail, that she was now everywhere. Vacuitous I was by the awe-inspiring incident, and I don’t think I’ll ever be quite the same.

Waking in the middle of the night now, I scream, like Abigail had done; I hold my breath, I think—why? Xero-thought poisoned maybe I am, a victim of my own. Yet, I hope I admire Abigail, here face and hair down, gone. Zeal, zeal, yes zeal, is now lost, and lost now, with the execution.

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The following comments are for "Abigail"
by macman202

I like it
I read it last night in a sleepy state and found the style likeable. I read it today and still like it. I like the story and how the narrator managed to remain coherent enough to be interestingly disturbed. Its kind of morbidly funny.

( Posted by: Furius [Member] On: March 17, 2002 )

I'm one who does not appreciate authors who try to expand their writing--i.e. make it excesively esoteric. The persona I used was--implied--to be a Schizophrenic--so 'dumbing it down' would be fairly out of order, I think. In fact, I even dumbed this version down from the very first draft because I thought it was too incoherent. Carefully examine the instances the story becomes incoherent, and hopefully if I did it right you will notice a narrator shift. However, I wrote for my English class, and I was constrained to 26 sentences had to start with a successive letter of the alpabet. Not my choice, though: it was just part of the assignment. Furthermore, the narrator is, though mentally ill, well educated and prone (more or less) to use such words. Sorry about the confusion. I can see why this would be confusing, given I didn't fully explain it. If you go back and look at the only other thing I've posted on this site, I think you'll find that much more simple, if those are your tastes.

( Posted by: macman202 [Member] On: March 18, 2002 )

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