Haidley I-IV

Let sanity restore
what manic thoughts
sought to tear
from silent slumber.


The patter of tiny droplets

rained down from above

dousing what comfort left

to weary sleeping slumbers.

Among the many fallen,

a figure moved eerily

certain of each footfall;

careful not to waken.

The drips conformed to

a rhythm that further

lulled those now resting.

Even the creatures steered

clear as if fearful

of this assembly and

this silent sentinel stealing

through. The rainfall lessened.

The quietude was empty.

A watcher had returned.



Among the many littered

corpses, now stripped bare

of any resemblance except

in greeting to Death,

lay an orphaned child

barely alive and hidden

underneath a pile that

had been slaughtered wholesome

amid the carnage of

earlier. A jackal prowled

once but was run

off by grubby scavenger

on two legs and

halitosis breath who was

racing by hurriedly and

not bothering to waste

time on “civilians” such

as this lot was.

Or had been, alive.



The child bawled out,

weakly at first but

each painful cry spurred

it on to newer

squeals. A few of

the ghouls glanced over

wondering where this sound

came from. Some, fearful

as always, rapidly stole

looks all around fearing

sudden arrivals of the

bladed variety. One however

wandered over and rummaged

through the stockpile and

quickly found the bawling

babe. She took pity

at first. Then saw

how hearty it was.

Thus began the journey

of Haidley the Unwanted.



Among the encampment there

stood atop a small

knob of a hill

that harboured the grandees

and commanders, all grand

in their sanctuaries. Like

their common foot soldiers,

they took slumbered well.

The foot treaded fellow,

garbed in dark clothing

that hugged well the

form that slunk about

like some panther calmly

on a hunting mission.

Toward the grandest of

shelters, the person strode.

The guards outside slumbered

too. After all, victory

was their reward. Only

the dead remained behind;

the wounded easily ignored.

The figure approached, blades

open and ready. Neither

sentry felt the steel;

their dreams were now

eternal as their bodies

began to rot straightaway.

Into the tent, the

figure stole, calmly listening

for any further sounds

of alarm. But all

that returned was a

cacophony of snoring and

flatulence. The dimly lit

interior offered no clues

as to who was

the target. But this

did not deter the

stranger who made for

the largest most corpulent

figure reclining amid two

barely clothed slaves also

asleep. With the speed

of a cobra, the

deed was done and

the stranger left a

calling card, a flower.

And thus she stole

out into the night.


© 2017 L. Tafa


Author: b20f08

I enjoy solo wargaming and writing. The first caters to the boy that never grew up; the latter satisfies a deep desire to communicate. Cheers.

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