The long, yellowing grass swayed gently in the light afternoon breeze. The sun rested low in the sky as it beat down over the flowing landscape beneath it, and its white light glimmered, as a rainbow, off the oily scum on the river. Far off, to the South, a group of crows screeched and cried as they wheeled over a dense clump of trees. Several insects clawed their way across the thick substance which stained the water, and, upon close inspection, one would witness the mosquitoes which skimmed and whined over the surface.
Only one figure was present. His thick, leather jacket was cast down in the long grass, coated by a layer of maps and charts. He was down on his haunches, and his gaze drifted across the river. The light breeze tugged at his shirt, lifting the side of his collar which had come unbuttoned. The light green stripes of his shirt seemed to bunch up where the sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and where his dark grey waistcoat pulled them together. His arms were crossed over his knees, and the fingertips of one hand lightly brushed the chipped, dented, steel grip of his pistol, which was tucked into the waistband of his light brown trousers. Flakes of leather were slowly pealing away from his heavy, black boots, which rested in the mud, among the reeds.
A tangle of dark hair rested on the bandana which hung just above his shoulders, and a pair of oily aviator's goggles were looped around his neck. Half of a Bidi cigarette stuck, fast, to his bottom lip, but it had long since gone out.
His head slowly turned to the side, as a heron beat its way downstream. He moved from his inanimate position, deliberately uncrossing his arms, and resting his left hand upon a clump of grass. His right moved down to the pocket on his waistcoat, before coming back up with a box of matches. The bright flash of the match-head reflected, blue, in his goggles, as he lifted it to the leaf of his cigarette. He never used to smoke. It had never seemed like a good idea.
He slowly rose, and stepped back. His eyes narrowed as the sun caught them. With a flick of his wrist, the match sailed away from him, its bright flame guiding it down to the oily scum on the river's surface. With a low roar, the flame burst across the surface of the water. The nearby oak took light, its branches wilting under the fire. As the mighty plant was destroyed, a vehicle was revealed; its axel was sheered and the windows lay in pieces around it. The canvas back still carried goods as it was engulfed in flame.
His arms drifted behind his back, and his left hand took hold of his right wrist. His fingertips no longer needed the support of the weapon, for there was very little to be done, now.
His eyes wandered to the flames, and reflected the destruction.
Only one figure was present. His thick, leather jacket was cast down in the long grass, coated by a layer of maps and charts. He was down on his haunches, and his gaze drifted across the river. The light breeze tugged at his shirt, lifting the side of his collar which had come unbuttoned. The light green stripes of his shirt seemed to bunch up where the sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and where his dark grey waistcoat pulled them together. His arms were crossed over his knees, and the fingertips of one hand lightly brushed the chipped, dented, steel grip of his pistol, which was tucked into the waistband of his light brown trousers. Flakes of leather were slowly pealing away from his heavy, black boots, which rested in the mud, among the reeds.
A tangle of dark hair rested on the bandana which hung just above his shoulders, and a pair of oily aviator's goggles were looped around his neck. Half of a Bidi cigarette stuck, fast, to his bottom lip, but it had long since gone out.
His head slowly turned to the side, as a heron beat its way downstream. He moved from his inanimate position, deliberately uncrossing his arms, and resting his left hand upon a clump of grass. His right moved down to the pocket on his waistcoat, before coming back up with a box of matches. The bright flash of the match-head reflected, blue, in his goggles, as he lifted it to the leaf of his cigarette. He never used to smoke. It had never seemed like a good idea.
He slowly rose, and stepped back. His eyes narrowed as the sun caught them. With a flick of his wrist, the match sailed away from him, its bright flame guiding it down to the oily scum on the river's surface. With a low roar, the flame burst across the surface of the water. The nearby oak took light, its branches wilting under the fire. As the mighty plant was destroyed, a vehicle was revealed; its axel was sheered and the windows lay in pieces around it. The canvas back still carried goods as it was engulfed in flame.
His arms drifted behind his back, and his left hand took hold of his right wrist. His fingertips no longer needed the support of the weapon, for there was very little to be done, now.
His eyes wandered to the flames, and reflected the destruction.