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The odds of failure were great from the start
that early, frigid, October morning before daylight.
I slipped into the outline of a dense, southern forest,
in search of my prey, or trophy to mount, or tales for
great grandchidren to recount.
Across the icestruck plain of a sandy oakridge, the
silhouette of my trophy appeared behind a maze of thick
gawberry bushes.
Bordering the creek bank, the same one that legend holds, ole Collins Lanier was hung from a poplar tree until his last breath.
All because he would not divulge to Sherman where he buried the secret treasure of gold bullion.
Whether legend or not, Sherman hanged him until his last breath left a lifeless body.
And they both left behind a monument, a 60 foot tall poplar tree.
Under the poplar tree, it appeared my monument stood silently, oh some would proclaim a monster.
As I silently stalked toward my prey it dared not move.
Suddenly in awe and disgust, I pounced upon my prey, gun in hand and cocked for the kill.
A large five foot mound of dirt, rubbish, and heap left from a poor, Southern past. Splinters of glass and pottery, broken compressed tablets of paper, whose secret lore laboriously deciphered, proved to be an ancient grocery list.
Layer upon layer removed, revealed an uncovered past.
How many lives ago was that? How many broken promises ago was that?
Enormous heaps of discarded humanity, more shards of glass among the grass.
Broken milk jugs from another era, scattered among the traces of four twine babydolls calling out for revenge.
Mummified among the brown broken bottles that once held the spirits, yes they demanded revenge!
Their only company, the brown bottles that suggested a
long binge.
How many lives had passed? How many broken promises?
As I frantically dug deeper I became taller, as the mound grew smaller.
It seemed I could hear the voices calling out.Old Collins Lanier calling out, pleading for mercy.
Then all was quite... how many lives ago was that?
Was the gold, maybe buried deeper? Then suddenly, I gave up my struggle uncovering all the layers of time just read. An eery feeling came over me, almost like digging up the dead. How many lives ago was this?
How many broken promises ago?
So with an uncanny reverence, I stopped in my tracts, and covered the spot back with layers of winter leaves, and I left there so fast.
But in the years ahead I shall tell of the trophy, and how my prey turned to past.
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