A Halloween Tale 2 - Potd

To Kill a Wild Rabbit - FICTION The small winding valley was cold and dank. Nothing stirred as darkness descended quickly. Dusk brought an ominous cloud of evil fog that, like a black shroud, spread itself over the valley. No one ever dared intrude in the mouldy meadows below, despite the wild rabbits that thrived there. None dared, because of Wiener. Every night he kept his solitary rendezvous in a fallow meadow. Every night he carried his hunting weapon well-kept, ready for use. Every night he would caress it as if it were a woman in the throes of an adventure. A lonely owl swooped, crying shrilly into the night. A mouse screeched faintly as deadly talons encircled its soft body. In the distance, a solitary coyote howled plaintively. Then all was quiet whilst Wiener bided his time. For a brief moment, the calm stillness was shattered. In a flash, a shot rang out; an unlucky rabbit hit the dust. Wiener left it where it lay, twitching in its death throes. It was immaterial to him how many he killed. It was not the rabbits he wanted to kill. It was a bigger game that he had in mind. Suddenly out of the swirling mist, a young woman appeared like a ghost of a horrid past. Her hair was black like the night, her body was full and shapely. For the past three years, he had hardly spoken to her, Rarely looked at her, never made love to her. She had flirted too much with that bastard. Who raped her mercilessly. “He’ll not dare come here, you know.” She whispered. He saw a pain crease on her face. One day the bastard will return. That is what Wiener wanted. Then Wiener would kill him like a wild scared rabbit. "Why do you harbour such hate?" she asked. Angrily he lifted his rifle and fired. The shot flew dangerously past her right ear leaving her petrified. Behind her another miserable rabbit died. He wondered if revenge would satisfy him. (Note: This is a stand-alone poem but in reality, it is a prologue to a Maltese TV play with which I won first prize ages ago. The Maltese TV station would not air it for their agenda. Eventually, I converted the play into a short novel in Maltese, now out of print. But the prologue always haunted me. As a prologue, it will not be continued in poetic form. Suffice it to say that Weiner, the main protagonist, got his revenge, but against the wrong person. Hate is a terrible vice. Not to be continued.)