Bonus post. Another especially short flash piece. Harder. Louder. Silent as a haiku. See what you think.
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The gentle wind, like a bow over catgut, shimmers the leaves. The forest is an orchestra tuning itself.
You step into the clearing and I take aim.
The wind dies, of a sudden. First there is no sound. Then there is terrible sound.
It's not a clean shot. On your knees, eyes dismal with pain, you beg me. "Please. Please." I should finish you off. But I am weak, and I run. Keep on running.
The wind picks up and has yet to abate. It's become a howl, and there is no peace or respite, even here in this chilly, inebriated bordertown, where so many gather to forget pasts that outright refuse to be cut adrift and only seem to blow harder, gust louder.