I remained intoxicated by the heady brew of mist and rain, disposed to whatever phantoms I might see. But it was no specter I conjured, no wild cast of the imagination. The shaded figure I saw was a man, a real man, intent on ruining all that was left of me. I had my shotgun beside me, set neatly against my chair, and a cup of strong coffee to keep me aware. If someone were to die tonight, I was prepared.

Published by

Steven Baird

Writer, amateur photographer, ad compositor and chicken herder.

2 thoughts on “Forecast”

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