The Noon Executions Susan M. Gelles
[ FICTION]
T
he general had chosen him because everyone said he had beautiful handwriting: the
clearest and yet most ornate in all the three towns.
For ten years, he’d written the baptismal and marriage certificates for the Church of Santa Teresa; he’d even painted the borders of these documents with a brush made from the hair of an ox. Now he sat behind a desk at the jail, in a room that somehow remained cool despite the summer heat, as one by one the condemned shuffled in and sank on the unyielding chair before him. Those who could not walk were dragged by soldiers, but in all cases their escorts left them alone with Antonio. The guards preferred to stand outside the door and observe the buzz of the large anteroom.
SPRING 2016 / BELMONT STORY REVIEW
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