The Old Man

blbookBitterness bit down every word he kept choked down in his throat. Had he not seen the old man for himself, he never would have believed the man he buried was still alive.

The old man stood tall and proud in his tailored suit; a far cry from the broken worn down man he once presented himself to be. He was all smiles and flash encircled by kneeling black-robed figures. His hands were raised in offering and praise to a dark deity of unscrupulous nature. In his right hand he clutched a silver jewel encrusted dagger which he brought to his chest in ceremonious manner.

At his feet lay open a thick leather book from which he drew the words he chanted at the circle’s center. From Echo’s vantage point he could see the writing in the book looked as if it had been scrawled by a madman on his deathbed; desperate and in haste.

Echo’s thoughts raced. He couldn’t believe his eyes. There was no doubt this was the same old man he knew many years ago, but the man had transformed; full of life and vigor. If the man had been alone, Echo would have confronted him, but surrounded by strange robed figures he thought better of it.

Cautious steps put distance between himself and the strange ritual. His curiosity was not so driving as to convince him to stay until its completion. He would have to confront the old man soon, but not here, and not now. His only concern at present was to slip out of the decrepit abandoned mill without notice.

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About Z.

Poetic pipe and cigar enthusiast rifling through the haunted memories of a not so distant past while openly wrestling with faith and God. A rambling writer with the misguided notion that he has something to say. His only redeeming qualities are his wife and children.
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