Beanery Online Literary Magazine

June 24, 2009

The Execution of the Reincarnated Edgar Allen Poe





R. D. Carpenter


            “Father, you are the dignitary of the church responsible for the confessions of the condemned, are you not?  You come at such a late moment. I assume your late arrival to be a trepidation resulting from your callow experience with matters of such necrology.

            “Father, I can infer by your face—your sweet, innocent, and surprisingly young face—that my behavior confounds your senses, your genial innocence, your intellectual curiosity. Be not hesitant in your inquisitiveness, indulge your hunger and feast upon my depth. Allow me to evince my predicament for your extrapolation of the said enigma before you.     

“At first the beast existed only in the darkest recess of my mind—the cave of its dwelling—womb of its birth—foolishness of its—

Damn her with her groping fingers and blissful scorns. Be gone from my head you filthy dandelion, you product of licentious betrayals.

            “Pardon my digression of reprimand, Father, for in securing the beast’s confinement, vituperation must be swiftly obtrusive.

“As to where my efforts of explanation were truncated by her insistent harping, I shall proceed. The foolishness of the beast’s conceiving I had contained, and for many years her—

            “What’s that you ask, Father? … You ask me why the beast imprisoned within my head is female? This I cannot answer with elucidation. My time remaining will not even allow the slightest elaboration on the demon’s development. The choice was not of my luxury as to its gender. The spawn is female; this I know. Important now is that the lubricious bint is contained and—

            “Stop needling me you grotesque jackal of crossbreeds! Back into your cave, deranged harlot of a bastard!

            “Again, an obeisance I stretch forth to you and beg forgiveness for this most vulgar behavior. Immured within this prison cell and asphyxiated with the integument of cement of low height above my head torments me to the meridian of my patience.

            “Father, this cell door, which stifles my participation in humanity and which now separates us bodily as we speak, seems to obfuscate my vision, for I perceive a grin, a grin gesticulated with only the tips of your mouth. Incongruent to your grin are your eyes, which I perceive as cold and obsidian as they expose my face for your contemplation. Perhaps this small and only window which breaths only the slightest amount of light into my constrained residence participates in your beguiling countenance.

“As you well know, confusion of mind was the judgment of the courts that extricated all emancipation of my physical form. In contradiction to the court’s predicted rehabilitation of my cerebral disease, I must expound, with earnestness, that my incarceration has only loosened the ligatures of the she-devil that is shackled in my mind, allowing her more freedom to provoke my thoughts and gain strength. But of course, my explanation of this increasingly maniacal transformation of my mind, I understand, is not novel in your ears. Informed was I that, as to my position of imprisonment, an affinity coalesced with your soul and that you expostulated to your superiors that you need try to be my savior and—

            ”An interesting question indeed, Father—interesting indeed. Forgive my befuddlement, for I am certain you have studied my file with a discerning punctiliousness. I knowing this for I was born with a precocious mind of sagaciousness, and I have decided you to be an astute erudite and that the answer you seek already rests within you.

            “Father, you grin once more—another discomfiture that time will not allow me to contemplate. This most curious question and your sardonic grin are most discomforting for a man in my position, only minutes have I left in this life. And your eyes—so dark and placid, like pools of wet ash. Forgive my keen observations, Father, but you appear sallow and hungry. Have you not eaten? Do you fast in protest of my execution? I pray a refection after my death will discard the pallor of your complexion and sate it back to a swarthy healthfulness.    

            “Oh yes, you wish an answer to your question.  Apologize I must for my obtrusive observations—

            “Damn her insistent carping! Why can’t she let me live in piece in my final moments? Shut your filthy mouth, you futile heathen. When I fry, you, too, shall die, leprous gargoyle.

            “Father, I am weak and the guards now come. The hands move quickly around the clock when Death stands so near.  Will you walk with me, Father? The shackles that bind my feet are heavy and your hand placed upon my elbow may exhort some levity from Gravity as I walk to the chamber of my egression from this most horrid life.

            “Truly your grin confounds me still, Father.

“Please, while we walk, will you read a verse from the Good Book of God that you carry with you?


“The scent in this chamber of death suffocates my bravado, Father; I am frightened. This chair of electric execution, which has galvanized so many deaths, remains solid and its restraints secure my arms and legs and head with an indefatigable persistence, so much that I fear my soul will not be allowed to escape my deceased human form. Father, you now grin with an excitable menace, as if pleasure were your spouse in this theater of my execution. You now frighten me, Father, even as I step so close to God—and you, his proxy on earth.

“I must know the cause of this most unexpected exuberance that you display and why—

“Oh God, I want you dead, you Eve of man’s destruction, you serpent of deception and molestation. May the volts of my death confine you to the prison of Hell, witch—

            “Yes, Father, she pains me even upon my threshold of infinite darkness.

            “Your question? Oh yes, your most unorthodox question: The placement of my axe into my wife’s head. I felt no pleasure, for the justification of the deed was prearranged by her actions in life. Her actions I deemed to be the fulcrum of my response. I acted swiftly and apathetically.

            “Father, you still grin most menacingly even as you exit this chamber of death. Please, Father, your name, what shall I tell God your appellation?”

              “My son,” Father speaks irreverently—almost scornfully, “my name burns on many pages of your Good Book of God. You may call me Satan. I will await your arrival.” And the door slams and the power surges and the lights flicker and pop and Death moves swiftly into the chamber.

 About guest writer R. D. Carpenter: I enjoy writing as a hobby. If there comes a day when I can make a living writing, I will certainly pursue it as a career. Macabre seems to be where all of my plots end up, and of course, satire is closely related to macabre. I post many of my short stories on my Myspace webpage: In this story  I write about the reincarnated Edgar Allan Poe, a reference to the Black Cat.


ALL SUMMER IN A DAY: The Use of Descriptive Language







CHILDREN LEFT HOME ALONE (or in cars alone)



1 Comment »

  1. Hello There. I found your blog using msn. This is a very well written article.

    I will make sure to bookmark it and come back to read more of your useful info.
    Thanks for the post. I’ll definitely comeback.

    Comment by how to get content for Website — April 10, 2013 @ 12:43 am | Reply

RSS feed for comments on this post. TrackBack URI

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: