The Nightingale

It was a sweltering day in July when Heinrich was to be hanged. There was a large crowd as usual for spectacles like this. He searched the crowd for his love, Nicolette, a Countess, an alabaster goddess brought to life, with dark red curls like wine that sprung from her head and cascaded deliciously to her shoulders and her breasts.

She once had given him her ring as a symbol of her love, and he in turn had sworn to her his life and to serve her only. They would often meet at dusk under the linden trees to kiss. The nightingale was their only witness as it perched itself in the branches above and sang its lovers‘ song for just the two of them. Then one day they were caught holding hands by a servant to the Count. Heinrich was imprisoned, thrown into a darkened world of stone and iron from where he lamented at not knowing what became of Nicolette.

His attention fell on a blonde-haired boy with a mucus covered face. The boy looked directly at him while singing merrily through the din, a song the monks used to teach music to the peasant brood. The nitwit is a fool! He thought. But no more than I. And yet a fool for love is greater than the wisest with no knowledge of it. My love for Nicolette is worthy of my death, and I would die a thousand times if while I lived I could spend my nights drawing in her breath with every one of mine while we kissed under the linden tree.

At that moment he heard the order given and he was pulled off the ground by his neck. The noose burned hot like kiln stone as it ripped into his flesh. He flailed about for several moments until exhausted; then death, cumbrous and cold, crept up from his toes and fingertips. Slowly, it enveloped him. He felt its claws pierce his lungs then his heart, and draw a cloak of shifting colors down before his eyes. Gold like the sun. Red like the wine. Green like the field. Blue like the sky. Then all was black. Like the night when the nightingale had sung.

#literature #fiction #microfiction #tragedy #challenges #death