Professional Stringer of Words
The presence of the mandrake was getting to him, he thought, the poison perhaps seeping into the groundwater. That would explain all of it, the whispers, the dreams.
Uncertain if the feathered shadows in the sky were real, uncertain of anything anymore, Oswald raised his rifle to aim at them.
And what would the neighbors think if they heard gunshots? He was not a violent man, not prone to hunting, but he couldn’t take this anymore. That’s what he would tell them.
He pulled the trigger. His shots cracked open the sky. One falling shadow, two. Still, the feathered beasts sprinkled their cargo, bits of root and dark specks, seeds to spread the poison menace across his land.
And the mandrake at his feet, lush and wild, awaited its gifts.
Oswald reloaded. He moved to take a step, but a bundle of leaves tangled…
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