Piddecock- A Suspenseful Short Story
By K Ann Pennington
Mange had set in. Charles Seth Piddecock’s scalp itched and oozed. Some of his wrinkled skin had turned pasty white. The carriage took bumps hard. Restrained, with no way to brace himself, he fell over on one particular snarl. Soon he tasted the trickle of blood from his forehead. The horses meant to run fast; the drivers urged them faster still.
Out of one bleary eye—runny from always tearing, Piddecock saw the streets lined with crowds of people who wished to erase him from history. Storefront windows had been painted with phrases like “Good Riddance” and “Traitor!”
He caught a glimpse of the high-end cafe where he once nibbled on his sweetheart’s wrist, his hand held firmly hers and ignored her resistance. Of course she’d surrendered, for he’d given her a good life. She’d been a nobody, half his age! No woman of her birth status could possess what she did were it not for him. She’d been one of the girls blessed enough to be lavished upon by Piddecock.
But he hurt too much to reminisce more. The wretched coach pitched him from side to side and his aches blazed hot. He hadn’t eaten in days—how many? He didn’t know, for he’d lost track of time in the stone cellar where he’d been forgotten.
At the majestic city center, the carriage pulled past the seat of government. The grand outdoor convention stage, made of stone and columns and emblems of partisans, loomed, and Piddecock’s dry, hollow mouth gaped even more. He shut his paper-thin lids. A fleeting warmth accompanied remembrance of the speeches he’d delivered from that stage to loyal throngs who’d cheered back the words he filled into their ready heads.
Piddecock opened his crusty eyes when the carriage whipped around a street corner he’d previously taken in a more dignified manner during countless processions in his honor. He once commanded limos and guards and horses—all the pomp and circumstance—meant for his protection and promotion. He’d looked down on the mobs who had screamed with contagious passion for his visionary ideals. He marveled at how much he’d done for them, how only special people like them were awarded an extraordinary sovereign like him. But for Piddecock’s current ignominious cavalcade, the crowds jeered. They threw rotten fruit. They yelled back his own words, but with sarcasm and turnabout-is-fair-play.
The horses stopped, and Piddecock smelled his own rot in the breeze that swirled sandy air around to slap his sunken face. He sat helpless—a shriveled-up drivel of a peel where a noble, worthy, generous man once thrived—and waited for the officials to escort him to his hearing. The rear gate of the carriage opened and they dragged him out without concern for his physical condition. He’d made these men. Now they betrayed him. Piddecock strained to stare into their eyes as each official passed him off, one to the other. He got no admiration. No salute. Just shackles around his wrists and ankles, chained together for full restraint.
Shame and disgust sucked in all the oxygen to fill the growls of angry onlookers committed to the Big Forget. Weighed by perturbation, Piddecock leaned too far forward going up the marble courthouse stairs and tumbled—one, two, three steps. He lay face down for a moment before an obliged hand helped him to his wobbly feet. Cheers replaced barks and grew louder when he faced the crowd—the largest turnout ever for Charles Seth Piddecock.
And then, in the distance, the swarm began to part down the middle, making way for a gray mist taking the form of galloping horse and rider.
The ominous figure sent sharp tingles to bubble up Piddecock’s chest.
“What in the name of …” Piddecock mumbled, then wheezed. His stomach twisted. A warm gas seeped through the backside of the tenuous fabric he’d been allotted to use as undergarments. The persistent rhythm of thundering hooves pounded harder and faster, punctuating the hush that had descended over the city center. The horse charged ahead, unstoppable. Its rider had barely a visage and leaned forward, pushing the mount to approach the courthouse, and the marble stairway, toward Piddecock.
The shadowy abomination elevated and took the stairs five-at-a-time. At the top, its veiled arm reached down, encircled Piddecock’s waist, and whisked him up onto the horse, all in one motion. The mysterious rider held Piddecock tightly behind the horn of the saddle, and they bounded down the courthouse steps. No wide-mouthed observer moved to interfere.
Piddecock cried out for help. He appealed to once-ago allies. He wailed, maybe for the distant maternal wellspring from whom he’d emerged. His outbursts lasted until the essence of the city center, and the sovereign’s land—Piddecock’s nation, had been erased from his slate. He detected that he once knew of those places but no longer operated within them. They’d been lost … for some reason. Darkness filled his eyes and nostrils, and the pounding of hooves—and his heart—dissipated. Something lifted the weight of his chains. His awareness contained less and less, so that Piddecock thought even he might forget who he once was.
About the Author
K Ann Pennington
K Ann Pennington is a social studies teacher who is fascinated by the constructed nature of place in America. She has traveled over 30,000 miles around the United States by RV in pursuit of her passion. Other favorite pastimes include examining primary source materials and performing field research on a variety of topics, especially the Civil War. She wrote the thesis for her M.A. in American and New England Studies during an RV trip where she focused on the American West. K Ann is working on a historical novel that takes place on the Rocky Mountain frontier just after the Civil War.
Check out her author website and Facebook page: