He left his car in Ardrossan and took the ferry, crossed
Climbing slowly, stopping to enjoy the pleasant day, take
photos with his Master’s eye. He listened to the bird song, smiling as he imagined
their innocence, their free flight in the groves, their beauty, and the crunch of
their little bones between his teeth.
The trail was quiet as he climbed, the day reserved for him,
the Quiet One, to observe and measure, as was the Talent granted by his Master.
That One waited as he climbed, pleased with the work in progress, with himself,
looking forward to the festival afterward. So pleased indeed that he did not
note at first, nor care when he did, the fog that rose with his ascent. It came
slowly, inexorably, surrounding and caressing him, the faithful one, with the
tenderness of a gourmand.
The Quiet One stopped, puzzled, a sound? A chuckle?
The mist cleared beneath him on the trail, and he turned,
saw, the master, his Master, standing, a smile on his red, bloody lips.
Master, he said with some alarm, You startled me.
Were you behind me?
I am with you always, the apparition replied. Well
done, my good and faithful servant, he spoke with a warmth that penetrated
the chill of the morning fog.
The Quiet One felt it then. The ground beneath his feet.
Opened. And he fell.
Contract fulfilled, the Assistant smiled.
The names of good people have been changed to protect their privacy. For some bad ones, I've changed the names when I am no longer as angry with them as I once was, or if I do not wish to embarrass them or those close to them or descended from them. Or, if I think that some fool might try to sue me, maim me, or even kill me!
I'm a writer, not a Warrior, for all my dabbling in the Arts.
Sometimes, the names of Evil remain unchanged, as I have no fear to speak ill of the dead, especially if they are well buried. Or of some living, who hide in the shadows still and are dead to me. The dead cannot sue, they can but haunt me in my dreams, and the worst of them do that already. May I haunt them back.