The Bomb, by Henry Sharland

beauty of the nobility. Yet, Marie stayed the same, she anchored my mind, stabilised my being. New people came, I don’t think they understood the magnificence. They were dirty, with no colour in them, and they spoke briskly and curtly, as opposed to Marie with her captivating yet melodic, softly spoken voice. They hallooed for Marie, but with no response, for Marie had dignity. They were so barbaric, they stabbed and vandalised the room where she slept, such that its beauty was tarnished. Marie although woebegone, was able to show composure and solve their issues. She pitifully indulged them in a more cultivated treatment, she let them eat cake. Surrounded by esteemed bishops and clergymen, I learnt the teachings of the Old and New Testaments. Some of which seemed far-fetched. I could never understand the obsession with suffering and punishment, and how the crucifix could become the symbol of Christianity. The death of a hero in itself seems counterintuitive, for if you are trying to inspire why would the hate overcome? I was rightfully doubtful, because of course it was just a fallacy. Yet, Marie Antionette helped me learn to realise that it provided something greater than hero worship. It taught us forgiveness, moral merit, and offered answers in many ways to our strange lives. For Jesus had to die to atone for humanity’s sins and to effectuate his divine mission of redemption. Even his crucifixion took place at the hands of the people he loved and freed. But after all she had done, they still took her. I was sent away; she protected me from the cruelty which took up residence in the palace. I stayed with the parish in Lyon. The landscape was drab, the people were incapable of doing their jobs. I watched through the glass; the arched stained windows lined with gold on the diamond grilles in the abbey. I watched as the inept peasants failed to till the soil or teach the oxen to plough the land. I liked to ponder, but I felt imprisoned there, I began to contradict myself, probably because I

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was surrounded by nincompoops, pigs. After continual bad harvests, their brow furrows grew established, and their jaws stayed closed, tensed, clenched. And with no one to blame, pamphleteers projected and redirected this anger. She became the villain from Versailles, the Austrian outsider, a promiscuous, sexualised, scandalous symbol. Yet, she was belittled for her infertility, the hypocrisy. Hoarder of all the wealth and food. It discredited her for all that she was and it made her, as madam deficit, the impetus to the downfall of society. I could not live like that any longer. I was not like these people. I needed to escape. As a puppy, Marie used to take me through the town and toward the alps, I think it reminded her of Austria. I used to love to traipse through the trees, foraging for a femur, or settling for a stick to gnaw my canines into. I used to love the rich earthy scent after the rain. As the warmth started to go, and the blue faded in to a yellowbrown, I decided to leave, I was gone with the evening wind. It was fabulous. But perhaps I did not remember it as well as I thought. I became disoriented. So, I just idly dwelled in the uneven grass, and the scattered soil, waiting for something to occur. I became hungry. But I had no one to serve me. I shouldn’t need someone to serve me, but when I thought of hunting marmots myself, I only saw the gore. I saw beauty in animals dwelling, no thoughts behind their eyes, just living. I am a dog, who not just lives, but tries to understand the world. Part of me longs to just be an animal. And so, I found mushrooms of which I ate. I awoke, disoriented, yet calm, suddenly everything was less grim I could see through the darkness, it was more vibrant, like in Versailles. The path back to Marie seemed clearer, the past storms and flooding had destroyed much of shrubbery, but amongst the anguish was signs of rebirth. And although the soil was washed

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away, it helped spread the nutrients amongst the flood plain and paved the way for new plants to grow. I noticed too that the hotter summers and colder winters had brought necessary change that eroded the unstable topsoil. I felt dirty. A horned brutelike ox appeared, out of nowhere it seemed, however, when I paid closer attention I could see dim, almost gloomy, foliage it emerged from. ‘Your ears protrude to flirt with the sky, they catch the light as they flap about, but you are not a true papillon that flutters, nor are you bright. So, tell me, what is it you are doing?’ said the ox. ‘I am trying to make my way back to where I belong. I need to protect the beauty in and of our system.’ ‘I see I was right; you are more like a moth in the dark, following a false moon,’ he scoffed. ‘What makes you so righteous, you are just an ox,’ I say. ‘I served the people, ploughed the fields, provided for the community. In these trying times, no one understood our struggle, let alone could help. I saw the brutal effects firsthand, where my own family turned on me to sate their hunger brought upon by you.’ ‘What does that make you’ I said confused. Though I knew better than to indulge his notion. He was a bull that could only see red. ‘I am a spirit, I have died so others may live, and it is with regret that I pronounce the fatal truth: Louis, our King, and Marie, our Queen, must do the same rather than a hundred thousand virtuous citizens.

They must perish because our country must live’.

‘Who should decide who lives and dies, who can play god. Our King is the only person that possesses the divine right. Surely, the

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outcome doesn’t have to be that dire. For the secret of freedom lies in educating people, not abandoning everythi-’ ‘ -the secret of tyranny is in keeping them ignorant. You can’t make an omelette without cracking a few eggs. This is what has to be done’ the ox snarked back.

‘But no one loves armed missionaries,’ I replied. Because, believing something so ignorantly, that brings that much terror, is sure to have fatal ramifications.

‘Maybe so but, to punish the oppressors of humanity is clemency; to forgive them is cruelty.’

I was done with his logic. And just as abruptly as he appeared, he left. Yet his words still lingered. The vibrancy wore off soon after, nevertheless I could still see my path, it was just more clouded. On the way I saw a pig. A fat disgusting pig. The pig was dirty, like the peasants, it only cared about its interests, food, with little regard for others, and for what could be lost in its gluttony. Was the ox the pig? Or was I? Now on the dirt tracks, I hopped on the first wagon I saw carrying fresh produce, it was obviously destined for Paris. I stowed myself in between the axle and the back of the cart, as one would some luggage. I was tired, and it was a long trip, so I decided to catch up on some sleep. It was going to be a big day tomorrow. Once in Paris I let hope guide me to her. In retrospect, it was the hope that clouded me, it was malignant. I followed the crowd. They seemed abnormally joyful, they carried pitchforks. I thought it meant they finally recognised that they were the working class. I squeezed through the crowd, for now anyway, until I saw Marie’s face. She must’ve resolved the situation; she was so wise and angelic. As I got closer, I noticed her cheeks were droopy and eyes teary. I thought

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maybe she just was supporting the heavy burden of the people’s problems. I was right, but oh how I was wrong. Her head was on a pike. Disconnected from her fragile little body. She was like an innocent little child. She did not deserve this cruelty. Her body laid upon the guillotine, as Jesus laid upon the cross. The bloodstained blade still glinted in the sunlight, as chunks of flesh slid down, and fell onto the platform surrounded by savages. I started to sob, but before long I heard ‘Is that the bitch’s dog!’. It only took one person to get everyone riled up. In my final moments, I thought of the ox, I thought of how I was right, but mostly I thought of whether I was the butterfly or the moth, and if we were both the pig.

Maximilien Robespierre has been quoted for his thesis regarding political morality, and as a leader of the Jacobins.

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