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Description
Final Expense

By George Ray Arruda

     He felt the coin in his hand. The weight of it, it's irregular surface nearly filling his palm. In the dim light coming through the high window, heralding the dawn, he gazed at it's silver gleaming in the pale light. It seemed luminous, as if a portion of the moon had been carved into the shape of a coin. It laid there, a simple coin in his hand, but it's meaning was as weighty as the fall of a judge's gavel.
     While the light grew with each passing moment, and the birds began to welcome the end of night with song; the cold grip of the coin in his hand spread through him settling in his chest, which felt cold and hollow. His heart ached and burned in the void of it, throbbing in waves of radiating cold fear. Each pulse built like waves within him, only to find that no salvation or redemption awaited on the shore. They crashed in a tumultuous inner storm whose only outward sign was a quiet small stream of tears down his cheek, falling into his palm, onto the coin.
     Although alone, he recalled his life in such detail that it was as if he were viewing his actions through the eyes of another. The glairing failures, and brief triumphs, the quiet decisions made alone; which define our paths more than we can know, until it's too late. The things that seemed like epic struggles at the time, falling away to be replaced by the simple moments that truly define our lives, transforming into threads. He gazed at the tapestry he had woven with his deeds, and although it frayed at the edges, he felt its construction to be strong and beautiful, although somewhat flawed and rough.
     Ultimately, the triumphs and trials come to one conclusion, and end that none escape, and the weaver's hand is stilled. For him that hour was known, whereas most others never knew when it would come. In knowing the tumult within him seemed to be growing, with no possibility of ending or release, other than the small stream flowing down his cheek into his palm and over the silver coin resting there.
     Quiet hours passed with little change, other than the growing light within the room through the high window. A growing crowd gathered in the courtyard below the window, and their sounds could be heard echoing off of the barren walls of stone surrounding him. Their chatter had the dim feel of a carnival, but the undertones of a mob barely restrained. They had come to watch the spectacle, the grim and final threads put together to complete the tapestry of his life; whereupon the weavers hands would still in one swift stroke.
     The sounds of jingling keys brought his thoughts back to the moment, and he stood looking up through the small high window at the patch of blue beyond. As the key opened the lock, he still stood looking up and out as a raven flew briefly within his view. As the door opened with a groan, the jailers stepped in and a magistrate began to read aloud the charges and sentence in a droning tone, devoid of any compassion or emotion.
     Large and silent the guards moved forward, grasping his arms and binding them with efficient brutality. The coin still gripped in his hand no longer seemed cool, but seemed to contain the warmth of all of the rage he could not, would not express. It felt alive, vibrant, where he felt empty, as if the fire of guilt and rage and shame had left him cavernous within.
     The walk down the hall and to the stairs, which led down, was one of silence and the echoing of muted footfalls. No longer could he hear the crowd, the torch lit corridor was dark in spite of the feeble flames. He had refused a priest to accompany him, as was customary. He had no desire to hear a rambling sermon at this time; this was his hour to live as he chose. The past had been examined, the future was certain; this was his opportunity to drink in the moment with all the clarity of a mountain pool. The aroma of the torches, the strange sensation of being bound, all reached into heights of awareness he never knew he had. A small spider in a web was briefly in his field of vision, and then the next moment it was past him.
     Large and dark the door loomed in front of them. Bands of iron held it together, while a large lock hung on a hook next to it. The lock had always been placed there before hand shortly after sunrise, it was ceremony, and so much of what was occurring was dictated by the odd traditions established over time without much reason behind them.  The Magistrate stepped forward, and lifting his ceremonial staff knocked three times on the door loudly. The heavy door opened with an odd ease and quiet, to reveal a bright courtyard containing a hushed crowd.
     The blue he had seen earlier was no longer evident, as ominous storm clouds churned overhead. Thick and black, ready to downpour any moment, they lingered above dimming the daylight so all seemed in shades of gray. A roped path led from the doorway to the riser on which stood a lone hooded figure in black, axe in hand. Beside him lay the bloodstained block, upon which so many have placed their heads before him. Had they all felt as he was feeling now? The strange calm within him was the last thing he was expecting. The moment had come, and he was going to walk with his head high. His teachings had taught him that no man is truly innocent, so he was sure that those who saw fit to place him there would justify his end.
     No sooner than he had walked out on to the path, then the gathered throng erupted into a torrent of verbal vileness. With a surprising calm he walked through them, and toward the hooded figure. Their volume was such that he felt their words more than he heard them, yet still he walked, eyes fixed on the man ahead. At the base of the steps he was unbound. He did not look at his guards, instead keeping his eyes fixed on the eyes gazing at him from within the hood. Hazel eyes, that did not look at him with malice, or compassion. They gazed back at him with knowing, a strange and reassuring knowing that this was just one of a long line before him.
     Up the steps he slowly went, until he stood before the headsman, so close he could see the hood move from his breath. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his hand out, the coin gripped between his fingers and thumb. The headsman reached his hand out and gripped the coin opposite from him. In the brief moment that they both had the coin he said in a clear untrembeling voice, "Clean and quick." As the words left him, he felt a tingle throughout his body causing his hair to stand up on his arm. He had practiced the words time and time again, now they were done and said, he felt relived.
     The heads man turned to the crowd, lifted the silver coin high, and in a booming voice called out "Clean and Quick." Those would be marked down as his last words.
     Suddenly the world went white, a brilliant and blazing white that threatened to shatter his very sight. The roar that filled his ears was deafening, and strangely he seemed to be airborne. The next moment he lay upon one of the spectators, who was either sleeping or dead, he could not tell. The spots within his vision cleared quickly, but the ringing in his ears seemed to be getting louder.
     On wobbly legs he stood and looked over the strange scene. Bodies were strewn everywhere, some of them clearly no longer among the living. The realization that he was the sole person awake and alive in the courtyard came to him as brilliantly as the flash moments before. The open gate stood out in his fuzzy vision, and with purposeful and awkward strides over the fallen he made his way to it. Without a pause or backward glance he made his way out, and into the world as the heavy downpour began. Each drop that fell washing away his passing as if he had never been there.

Description
Final Expense

By George Ray Arruda

     He felt the coin in his hand. The weight of it, it's irregular surface nearly filling his palm. In the dim light coming through the high window, heralding the dawn, he gazed at it's silver gleaming in the pale light. It seemed luminous, as if a portion of the moon had been carved into the shape of a coin. It laid there, a simple coin in his hand, but it's meaning was as weighty as the fall of a judge's gavel.
     While the light grew with each passing moment, and the birds began to welcome the end of night with song; the cold grip of the coin in his hand spread through him settling in his chest, which felt cold and hollow. His heart ached and burned in the void of it, throbbing in waves of radiating cold fear. Each pulse built like waves within him, only to find that no salvation or redemption awaited on the shore. They crashed in a tumultuous inner storm whose only outward sign was a quiet small stream of tears down his cheek, falling into his palm, onto the coin.
     Although alone, he recalled his life in such detail that it was as if he were viewing his actions through the eyes of another. The glairing failures, and brief triumphs, the quiet decisions made alone; which define our paths more than we can know, until it's too late. The things that seemed like epic struggles at the time, falling away to be replaced by the simple moments that truly define our lives, transforming into threads. He gazed at the tapestry he had woven with his deeds, and although it frayed at the edges, he felt its construction to be strong and beautiful, although somewhat flawed and rough.
     Ultimately, the triumphs and trials come to one conclusion, and end that none escape, and the weaver's hand is stilled. For him that hour was known, whereas most others never knew when it would come. In knowing the tumult within him seemed to be growing, with no possibility of ending or release, other than the small stream flowing down his cheek into his palm and over the silver coin resting there.
     Quiet hours passed with little change, other than the growing light within the room through the high window. A growing crowd gathered in the courtyard below the window, and their sounds could be heard echoing off of the barren walls of stone surrounding him. Their chatter had the dim feel of a carnival, but the undertones of a mob barely restrained. They had come to watch the spectacle, the grim and final threads put together to complete the tapestry of his life; whereupon the weavers hands would still in one swift stroke.
     The sounds of jingling keys brought his thoughts back to the moment, and he stood looking up through the small high window at the patch of blue beyond. As the key opened the lock, he still stood looking up and out as a raven flew briefly within his view. As the door opened with a groan, the jailers stepped in and a magistrate began to read aloud the charges and sentence in a droning tone, devoid of any compassion or emotion.
     Large and silent the guards moved forward, grasping his arms and binding them with efficient brutality. The coin still gripped in his hand no longer seemed cool, but seemed to contain the warmth of all of the rage he could not, would not express. It felt alive, vibrant, where he felt empty, as if the fire of guilt and rage and shame had left him cavernous within.
     The walk down the hall and to the stairs, which led down, was one of silence and the echoing of muted footfalls. No longer could he hear the crowd, the torch lit corridor was dark in spite of the feeble flames. He had refused a priest to accompany him, as was customary. He had no desire to hear a rambling sermon at this time; this was his hour to live as he chose. The past had been examined, the future was certain; this was his opportunity to drink in the moment with all the clarity of a mountain pool. The aroma of the torches, the strange sensation of being bound, all reached into heights of awareness he never knew he had. A small spider in a web was briefly in his field of vision, and then the next moment it was past him.
     Large and dark the door loomed in front of them. Bands of iron held it together, while a large lock hung on a hook next to it. The lock had always been placed there before hand shortly after sunrise, it was ceremony, and so much of what was occurring was dictated by the odd traditions established over time without much reason behind them.  The Magistrate stepped forward, and lifting his ceremonial staff knocked three times on the door loudly. The heavy door opened with an odd ease and quiet, to reveal a bright courtyard containing a hushed crowd.
     The blue he had seen earlier was no longer evident, as ominous storm clouds churned overhead. Thick and black, ready to downpour any moment, they lingered above dimming the daylight so all seemed in shades of gray. A roped path led from the doorway to the riser on which stood a lone hooded figure in black, axe in hand. Beside him lay the bloodstained block, upon which so many have placed their heads before him. Had they all felt as he was feeling now? The strange calm within him was the last thing he was expecting. The moment had come, and he was going to walk with his head high. His teachings had taught him that no man is truly innocent, so he was sure that those who saw fit to place him there would justify his end.
     No sooner than he had walked out on to the path, then the gathered throng erupted into a torrent of verbal vileness. With a surprising calm he walked through them, and toward the hooded figure. Their volume was such that he felt their words more than he heard them, yet still he walked, eyes fixed on the man ahead. At the base of the steps he was unbound. He did not look at his guards, instead keeping his eyes fixed on the eyes gazing at him from within the hood. Hazel eyes, that did not look at him with malice, or compassion. They gazed back at him with knowing, a strange and reassuring knowing that this was just one of a long line before him.
     Up the steps he slowly went, until he stood before the headsman, so close he could see the hood move from his breath. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his hand out, the coin gripped between his fingers and thumb. The headsman reached his hand out and gripped the coin opposite from him. In the brief moment that they both had the coin he said in a clear untrembeling voice, "Clean and quick." As the words left him, he felt a tingle throughout his body causing his hair to stand up on his arm. He had practiced the words time and time again, now they were done and said, he felt relived.
     The heads man turned to the crowd, lifted the silver coin high, and in a booming voice called out "Clean and Quick." Those would be marked down as his last words.
     Suddenly the world went white, a brilliant and blazing white that threatened to shatter his very sight. The roar that filled his ears was deafening, and strangely he seemed to be airborne. The next moment he lay upon one of the spectators, who was either sleeping or dead, he could not tell. The spots within his vision cleared quickly, but the ringing in his ears seemed to be getting louder.
     On wobbly legs he stood and looked over the strange scene. Bodies were strewn everywhere, some of them clearly no longer among the living. The realization that he was the sole person awake and alive in the courtyard came to him as brilliantly as the flash moments before. The open gate stood out in his fuzzy vision, and with purposeful and awkward strides over the fallen he made his way to it. Without a pause or backward glance he made his way out, and into the world as the heavy downpour began. Each drop that fell washing away his passing as if he had never been there.