Randall: Wild Goose ChaseMature

Mendrick sent me out on a wild goose chase.  I think that’s the saying.  Where you’re going after something you likely won’t find.  Oh, well.  I’m out looking for mountains or something.  I don’t really remember, with my new “living through actions” kick I don’t pay as much attention to detail.  And I don’t pick up on as much mentally.   So some of the things I would normally look over a few times before carrying out I’m just doing.  Forgetting and doing.  I don’t like this.

There are a few places that seem to match the general outline of the poem.  I’m just now on my way to the first one, hoping to get lucky.  Find what we need at the first one, not have to check multiple places.  Normal people are hasty and impatient.  I’m trying to simulate that, at least for now, to understand it.  It isn’t working so well.

When I arrive I walk around, looking for nothing in particular.  I wonder when he’ll get around to dumping the next body.  Will my being here just be for nothing, because he hasn’t gotten here yet or will—

I hear a strange click from a small natural alcove just ahead of me.   Then something smacks into my shoulder.  It hit me hard but I don’t feel any pain.  I look over to my shoulder to see if I’m ok.  A crossbow bolt stands out from my arm.  I don’t remember growing that . . .

The pain hits me in one wave and I fall to my knees, gasping.  I can’t wrap my head around what’s happening, black creeps into my vision and takes me before any understanding comes.

               

The End

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