Maxine Noth

Two Thousand Forty Two 

It was the smell that hit M first. A heady concoction of eau de perfume, thick sultry scents against the more sickly and floral, soon to intermingle with the stench of decay as the bodies would fall to rot in a marked grave of the wealthy. Then came the noise. Howling jeers as the sun set, an impatient stampede of waiting feet. It was her first public hanging on the aptly named Millionaire’s Row. She found herself joining in, screaming with the masses, her fists clenching in anger, her knees vibrating from pounding the concrete floor. It was hot and humid. The heat made people do terrible things. It turned them into animals.