On the Perimeter

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


Grims reached the outer fence, a rickety wooden thing with a large gap in between the top and bottom beam, that kept in the dumbest of the livestock. The gate was clear on the other side of the property and he didn't feel like circling the house just to use it. Folding the body over a fence post (he didn't think the fence itself could hold the scrawny corpse), he ducked between the twisting logs and stepped foot on to the Korpseky's land.

Though there was nothing keeping the air on one side of the fence or the other, a stench assaulted him that he hadn't smelled on the other side. It had the sulfurous quality that Eggtown South got when the humid air heated up real good in the summer.

The land between him and the main bulk of the farmhouse was broken up by patches of waist high weeds. He picked out the dark shapes of a dozen cows and a cloud-like mass that had to be their sheep huddling together.

Lamplight streamed through every other window and occasionally a shadow passed in front of one, darkening it.


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Inspired by (sequel to):

Quick hands. Moonlight flashing on a blade. Mooncat dying on a blade.

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