The shepherd

Once upon a time, there was a shepherd who lived with
his flock of sheep on a mountain.

One early spring day, he and his flock went down the mountain,
into the valley, because the grass in the valley was much greener
and sweeter than in any place on earth.

As sweet and lovely as the grass was, equally twisted and jealous
were the villagers that inhabited the valley.
They killed the poor shepherd and took his flock. Every week they
slaughthered one of the sheep and made it into stew or pie, until none
was left.

Autumn came, and the cold autumn wind woke up the spirit of the
murdered shepherd. His revenge was terrible, his breath turned
the grass as yellow as ripe corn and as poisonous as one thousand
dragon fish in the Japanese seas.

And every week one of the villagers died, from a mysterious disease.
That summer, the fields bore no crops and all animals, even the birds
in the sky, had either perished or escaped to other places.
As the winter set in, the last villager died
and no one was left to tell this story.

No one but me, because I AM THE SHEPHERD. HAHA HAAAA

© Carine JA Maes
Lees nu RAAF

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