The Blood of Patriots The early morning mist hovers over the verdant grass like a thin veil. Two figures disturb the veil as they approach the garden shed, the mist swirling around their legs and settling in their wake. Malcolm Nolan kneels beside the shed, tending to dark, moist soil. The two men come to a halt in front of Malcolm. The shorter of the two speaks softly, “General Nolan, Minster Rios is here as you requested.” Nolan dismisses the diminutive man with a wave of a gloved hand. A lump begins to form in the minister’s throat. He is well aware of Nolan’s bloody reputation. What Rios find more unsettling is the juxtaposition of finding a peaceful man tending to his garden rather than grinding an axe at a sharpening stone. Nolan eyes the minister, pausing at the man’s tie. The general fingers the tie gingerly through his gloves. “This is a very nice tie. What color do you call this?” Rios speaks around the lump in his throat, “I believe it was called azalea.” Nolan nods. “Minister Rios, this country; my garden — they are the same. There are rules for both. The sun shines, I water both. You are not playing by my rules. The city belongs to you. The outlying areas? They are mine. I wish you and your new associates had understood that. Now I must make an example of you.” Nolan steps away from the minister and four guards surround the man. Nolan contemplates his new plant food. “Azaleas.”
Posted on: Sat, 05 Oct 2013 20:27:30 +0000
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