Of Mice and Old Men
Another frightening tale from: R C Smith
Three blind mice, named Billy, Mac, and Joe, stood in the open field, dwarfed by the tall wheat which gently swayed in the warm spring breeze. They sang opera, with rising crescendos, tearful arias, and soprano notes that shattered windows many miles away.
One of these windows belonged to Doug Miller, a small farmer (the farm was small, not Doug). He ran to the open window frame, staring, beady-eyed into the fields.
"Those dang mice again..." he grumbled. He disappeared down the hall, muttering and cursing all the way.
The mice, meanwhile, were experiencing musical ecstasy unmatched by any human being since the dawn of time. Everything seemed more real to them. They could feel the sunshine on their small bodies, hear the distinct sounds of Mother Nature, smell the sweet scent of honeysuckle and wildflowers in the air.
As the mice began their moving rendition of "Flight of the Valkyries," there was a deep distant rumble, like a clap of thunder muffled by a closed window. Suddenly, Billy was thrown forward, and landed in a bloody heap a few feet in front of the other mice. Being blind, of course, they could not see their comrade's fate.
"Why have you stopped singing, Brother William?" asked Mac.
Billy's body lay twitching on the ground, headless and pumping blood, for a few moments. Then, it was still.
"I fear we have lost Brother Billy," said Joe, thoughtfully.
"Fear not, Brother Joseph," responded Mac. "We shall sing in his place. We shall sing like we have never sung before!"
"Yes, my brother!" bellowed Joe emphatically.
"Can you not feel it, Brother?" continued Mac. "The birds are chirping, the air is warm and soothing, the sunshine does bathe us in our undeserving glory. At this moment, my brother, at this moment, we are gods!"
"Brother Joseph?" Mac turned his head to the left, than to the right, trying to locate Joe. He did not see the second mangled body, lying at his feet. The blood oozing from Joe's guts formed a small puddle and moved slowly, slowly, toward Mac's toes.
"Ah! Joseph! Is that you?" said Mac, as the blood washed between his toes, and formed small eddies around his ankles.
Three blind mice lay dead, their bodies decaying slowly in the unseasonable heat. They were overcast by shadows from the tall wheat, which swayed slightly in the gentle spring breeze. There was no laughter, no singing, no life.
Old Man Miller lowered his deer rifle, and listened for a moment.
"Got you," he yelled gleefully. "Got you, you little bastards!"
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