The cherry stock with carved bison now had umber burn spots from the fire; he hadn’t had any time to re-set the sights or clean it properly. As soon as he was settled he’d find a firing range and sight the rifle with accuracy and perfection. His guns were all he had left. His treasures, survivors of the fire. He made certain that Avard Wholeman issued him the carry permits that had been burned up in the blaze. Permits are easy to replace. Irreplaceable family photos, especially his favorites – the yellowed photos of his parents, brothers and sisters, as well as his precious books and personal diaries were gone forever. Almost nothing is as obscene and mortifying than the work of an arsonist. Arson: the crime that killed the living victim over and over and over again; fire made so impure when conjured through determined focused hate. If ever capital punishment were justified it would be for this crime. No one survives arson. No one can improve ashes. Justice cannot. Revenge cannot. Even ancestors and angels glowering within the ether must spit curses down upon the sort of creature capable of murdering a heart full of precious memories.
~ EYE SKIN © 2015 J.D. Brayton