Horselaugh: A loud boisterous laugh a guffaw

Owlery: An abode or a haunt of owls

Verbarmolto: Italian, “much very”; extremely

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The snap, crackle and pop of twigs crushed beneath fleeing feet.

The slow, tentative crack of each and every twig, hypnotic as the pursuer stalks his prey.

Short sharp breaths, ragged as tattered clothes and greedily grasped in the fist of each lung. A salty sheen of sweat, the same brackish patina as glass washed to shore, the feeling of skin being shrink-wrapped as it evaporates. The sling cradling your arm is stained a dirty brown, blood and dirt held in place by a small metallic safety-pin that shines decadently in the dappled light of late afternoon.

The calm, collected oxygen exchange of a seasoned hunter, chest swelling and falling like budding flowers. The wolfish twitch of a nose, nostrils flaring, flooded with the tiny particles that comprise the sense of smell. Eyes taut, framed with prison cell eyelashes, pupils opening like the dark side of the moon. The webbed strap of a gun digs into his shoulder blade leaving a red welt imprinted under his shirt. The inquisitive bloodhound nose of the gun barrel pokes through the undergrowth, probing like a snake’s tongue.

A hollow beneath roots, a momentary bower presenting itself amongst the melted candlewax limbs of a gnarled old oak. The owlery above gushes forth with a sudden cacophony of soft hoots, oddly melodic and soothing, yet a stone cold musical flare. Here you are. Surprise. The horselaugh of your pursuer echoes through the wood, bouncing strangely off the trees. He may have heard the owls, but can he hear the quickening of your pulse?

Adagio…molto adagio…verbarmolto adagio…he edges forward, conducting the orchestra of his senses with the precision of a maestro. Slowly…more slowly….extremely slowly…eyes close like chrysalises and sounds suddenly metamorphose into something tangible; every coo, every hoot, every crackle, every ragged breath, he can hear it all. And now he’s coming for you. Brazen footsteps aren’t hidden anymore and the laughter he lets forth is more and more like the howling of a wolf, calling for his pack.

You hobble forward, uneven footprints left in your wake, full of microscopic scents that deer may sniff at later. The owls subside as the tree fades against the fabric of its cousins, roots entangled in the knots of a family drama. Thick, dry saliva taints every breath, dehydrated like a slug in salt, a spider web of drool that sticks to the roof of your mouth. You trip and fall on something unseen, cursing loudly and silently as the numb buzz of pain hatches in your knee, a yolk of warm blood seeping forth.

The crack of a gun. Shards of bark explode from a nearby tree, wooden mayflies departing at the sign of danger. A second shot, more shards, the noise of the gun buzzing like cicadas in your ear. Breath held. The steady boil of red heat rising in your chest. Not like this, please not like this.

There’s the crack of another bullet. Shards shatter just above your head.

There’s his horselaugh again. Closer now.

There’s the seductive rustle of bushes, the confident snap of a twig. He’s right behind you.

It can’t end, not like this.