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.
Inspired by this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt: