As we approach that holiest of Pagan holidays, Samhain, once again I’d like to post a story appropriate for the season. This tale is from my recent book of Dark Fantasy short stories, October Dark, titled “Basket Head”, available on Amazon and other platforms. I hope I’m not sticking my neck out by predicting you’ll enjoy this tale.

Somehow I knew they were lying. Or perhaps not so much lies as ignorance. Death- or at least unconsciousness followed quickly by death- would occur as soon as the blade severed the head. The guillotine. Invented as the most humane form of execution! Ha! Humane execution? Who needs a body to savor a delicious oxymoron? I certainly didn’t.

Yes, there was a moment of shock when my head began to fall; another shock when it flopped and rolled inside the basket. But I remained conscious. Ironically, if anything, my senses were heightened. And where was the merciful void of death?

A thought. If indeed our consciousness, identity; our selfness are products of, and contained within our brains, then are we truly beheaded when the blade comes down, or are we more accurately bebodied? Was my head cut off or was it my body that was dissevered? I tend to believe the latter, as our arms, legs and torsos do not think, but are mere conduits to the brain- the mind. Yes, the body is not the temple of the spirit, but a mere platform on which is balanced the true center of our being- our minds- encased within our sculls. But such conjecture is beyond the purview of the ignorant, unwashed rabble who locked my head in that hideous contraption and pulled the lever.

But listen to me! I had been a philosopher most of my life; an advisor within the court of the queen herself, and still, with my head rolling about unceremoniously within a foul smelling basket of wicker, a philosopher I remain!

How long have I been here? I am not privy to clocks, hourglasses or sundials. But I hear. I hear the bellowing shouts and screams of delight from the mob outside. Oh, how vulgar they are! How incapable of critical thinking and objective analysis. If they were, then surely they would have recognized that within the natural order we are superior to them. I do not postulate this out of arrogance or an unreasonable elitism. It is simply the way things are, and have always been. Should not the inferior be subordinate to their betters? Oh such barbarity and chaos there will be if this reign of terror triumphs and they succeed in this preposterous revolution. They will regret- nay, make that rue the day they allowed their rabid impulses to turn upon their benefactors- and benefactresses. Oh my poor, misunderstood Marie. Why, who would not prefer cake over bread? Oh, those wonderful discussions we had over sherry and sweet cakes.

After having said all of that and excoriating the peasants with their lust for rolling heads, credit should go where credit is due. The good Dr. Guillotine, certainly well meaning, after his own fashion, came up with an execution device that was swift and painless. At least physically painless. In days of yore, the pain and agony inflicted upon the executed was by design. Oh such gleeful bliss experienced by the executioner and the howling mob bearing witness to the joyous event. Perhaps going back millennia, as far back as the dawn of society, there were few opportunities for public entertainment, and the bored masses would pilgrimage from distant miles around to partake of the festivities. Ah the ecstasy of witnessing a human being slowly tormented on the breaking wheel, the soul satisfying screams of the executed and the exciting sound of bones being crushed and broken. Why, there were times when the condemned man or woman would survive for days before the Angel Of Death would affect a merciful finale. Impalement was one of the more horrific methods of dispatching the condemned. The prisoner was stripped naked with arms tied behind the back, then placed on an upright sharpened pole, which would pierce the anus, the body succumbing to the unwavering force of gravity, ultimately emerging through the condemned’s mouth. And lest we forget, the burnings at the stake for offenses large, small or fabricated. Ah, the agony of Saint Joan, her faith in her lord unfaltering until the sizzling end. Need I go on? The torments we visit upon each other are infinite in number and prove that within the human soul and psyche, a beast of demonic, twisted evil lurks and lies in wait.

And so bravo, Dr. Guillotine, bravo indeed for the quick coup de grace, perhaps to the disappointment of the rabid mob that yearned for at least a little bit more; a blood curdling scream or a paroxysm at the moment of severance. Must the fun end so soon?

Time. How much time has passed? Could it be that bodies are in fact superfluous, and we can get along nicely without them? So many of us browbeat and self-flagellate over what we believe are gross imperfections of ourselves from the neck down. The obese, the scarred, the age withered – perhaps all of those poor souls would be ecstatic to dispense with bodies that only inspire shame and mockery. Ah, imagine, all of humanity existing without those cumbersome, disease ridden, flatulent bodies. Would it not be a better world? Would we not be a better specie? A specie devoid of pain, except perhaps for the occasional migraine. A specie devoid of hunger, lust, crime and warmongering. A specie of pure sentience and intellect. We would traverse from point A to point B by willing our heads to roll in the preferred direction. Yes, the occasional collision of heads would be unavoidable, but that too could be a blessing of sorts- a meeting of the minds!

Ah, what do I hear from beyond the basket? An increase in the volume of cheering blood lust from the huddled, unwashed masses?

What is that sphere descending upon me from above? A round object shaped like a head. And for good reason. Am I really so arrogant that I expected my own private basket? I now have a basket mate, and undoubtedly there will be others. I pray that among them there will be at least one decent conversationalist. I must be a gracious host and turn my head and welcome the arriver. Sacre bleu! it is the head of Budreau, my political rival who wielded his poison pen like a rapier. And another plummeted down to join us. “Bienvenue mon fre’re, there is much room for us all.” Egads! It is Dubois, who challenged me to a duel for repeatedly cuckolding him. A duel indeed; oh the crude vulgarity of the man. And yet another has tumbled into the basket. It is Degelle, the dim witted sore losing lout who accused me of cheating at cards. Moi? One does not need to cheat to defeat the feebleminded. Ah, have I underestimated the simian rabble who stormed the Bastille? Are they actually clever enough to select basket mates who despise one another?

And yet another head spins down from the guillotine and settles inside the basket. But this one bears an aromatic scent and is divinely coifed. Sacre bleu! Non, non! The head that bounced off the basket’s bottom, that exquisite head, is that of the queen herself! Oh mon ch’eri, my poor Marie! “Speak to me my queen, speak to me!”

“Oh monsieur, if I had it all to do over, I would not be a queen, but a bakester, baking cakes by the thousands- or was it loaves that the peasants craved?”

“Ah, c’est la vie, my adored queen, we may no longer have Paris, but we do have each other-

allbeit in Hell.”