The old man. He stood on that hill. With quiet reflection he gazed out at you; his chest heaving, breath almost shades of pungent; he’s too far away–steaming–hating you with eyes that are void.

You shift uncomfortably–unsure if what you see can be taking place–his eyes are ice to your body–there is the sense that your skin might slough off with a nod from your nerves. You like this notion, but it triggers a gag from the depths of your throat.

The old man. Why won’t he leave? You begin to hate him, his eyes. Why won’t they stop staring at you?

He shifts in the wind–a tree.