Georges le Macon

Chapter One

To the Garden of Eden was the gaze of sinister intent. In Eden’s long grass, there walks no men, only monsters. Stood beyond the green was the fawn accompanied by his buck. A pair of white-tailed deer, native to Illinois. Guided by the strength of its father, the fawn let out it’s growing teeth to the sweet taste of ripe berries from the bramble bush. Such vibrant flavors burst out as the skin was munched away. Teeth stained a thin red to the juices as the fawn kept on at his meal, whilst the buck watched out in the lowering sun and orange sky to protect his young. A clear day in the season of snow and rain, though not present, they were jumping on the horizon. Warmth in the air omitted over all the bodies of those who frolicked in the tall grass, joyful, unaware of the oncoming monsoon. The weather to come was like the pouring waters which soaked Noah, for forty days and forty nights terror would flood these streets, with murder. The skies were ruined by black smoke, industrial empires, and men running on nothing but greed. To see this vibrant scene in such a tranquil setting, it was quite the relief.

The bushes showed the edge of the property, a house of marble with a gaping stretch of open green all finely cut with the feeling of a thick carpet in between your toes. To the far side was the epicenter for a tranquility divider. A man of youth with dark hair and a sharp saturated suit stood up against a stone railing of the porch with one leg posed on the higher mantle. His cat-like eyes beaded down the green to the berry bush, buck and fawn, they all lay in the top half of his sights. Beneath the beasts and hedges of Eden, gripped loosely in his hands, was a marble butted Lee Enfield, with a long scope of gold reaching nearly as far as the barrel’s end. Gradually running his tongue against his pearly white teeth, in a sweet preemptive sense of satisfaction, he readied his shot on the game. Slippery hands, a sinister touch of death, pulled back the trigger to boom a shot into the dusk air, thundering down the green grass carving its way through the sky, till it smashed into the torso of the buck ripping it’s life and soul apart not a second after the bullet left the rifle. The buck rocked to one side staggered before collapsing into a heap at the, now howling, fawn’s side. Rushing around the carcass of the buck, the fawn had no place to go, it’s legs had not long been made, let alone taught to gallop.

Pray insight, out came a second striking thunder tone, bombing the same pattern as before to wipe out the fawn’s back legs. Howling on the floor, unable to stand, the child dragged and scraped its hoofs on the mushy dirt. Crawling with tattered pieces of meat dangling from the hips. These cries refracted back across the fields to the shooter’s ear, such horrendous screeching sounds of agony promoted a showing of his teeth and a subtle grin to perk up at the corners of his mouth. Bringing the rifle into his shoulder and looking down the sights, he poised himself one last time. As the trickling precipitation descended.