Rowan '07: Value

Heat waves rippled up from the valley floor. Dust devils danced briefly, exhausted by the very heat which spawned them. Sun scorched earth---hard, cracked and broken.

Cool green eyes studied a dying man. Fingers twitched, scrabbling, clinging to a life bleeding out into the dust. A whispered plea for mercy was met with an arched eyebrow.

"Wasn't…personal," he wheezed.

"Not for you, perhaps." It was a small concession, acknowledging the excuse without granting absolution.


"Not even close to what he was worth."

The echo of a single gunshot died away in the still air.