The Distant Joke

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 23:03:36 -

The Distant Joke

The mud sucked at my boots. It was a cold, wet November that never seemed to end. I was pinned in the alley behind the old grist mill. My rifle was a dead weight. I had dropped it. I was breathing hard. The air tasted of iron and rot. I saw him. Silas. He was holding a knife. A rusted, jagged thing. He looked small. He always looked small. But his eyes were wide. They were the color of the...

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