Dead Fiction #1

Stories die. It happens when you look away, between the click of a mouse and the ringing phone. I have a folder called "Languishing" where I put the beginnings of stories that never went anywhere and died ignoble deaths in the closet of my computer. I am ever fascinated by unfinished works of art, more so than I am those that are complete.

Feathers by Martin Rose

Jefferson Hallam did not consider himself a killer.

Sweet grasses called to him, brushed against his cotton pants; how he loved the smell of the ripe marsh, the pine trees ensconcing them in their soft needles. Something about this land dizzied him, made him drunk with the wildness of this nature, this beauty.

Ben held the gun, and walked before him, his dark eyes focused on the horizon.

He stopped, and pushed the gun into Jefferson's hands.

"Hit the target."

Jefferson nearly dropped it. His fingers were warm against the cold, early-morning metal, and he felt awkward with this weapon of destruction. His hands were soft and used to the rhythm of paper and plastic keys, not these