Sunday, 19 June 2011

I thought I heard muttering. It might have been the wind. I'm currently crouched in a dark area of one of the massive front gardens of Meads, the rich part of Eastbourne. Scared to move, to give myself away. Waiting.

The glint of whatever weapon he may now have.

A savage gaze beneath a makeshift cloth mask.

Telltale whispers in the night air.

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