Marker

I selected the grave site with great care. Well into the woods, secluded, clearly marked with the stump of a missing tree. Even the last hoar of a fading winter seemed an appropriate punctuation, at least to my eyes.

When the digging was complete, I pawed through the contents of my backpack and extracted the hand-carved wooden box that contained his heart. That last bit of the bastard.

Through the silence drifted the hoot of an owl. Metaphorical perfection. I placed the urn and began heaping the soil over it. Say goodbye to the thieving, greedy, logging company lawyer.

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Inspired by this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt:

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook