Shagnasty TM SM


"Fire By Proxy"

{Dusk Till Dawn; Last To Least}

 by David R Moenich


   Copyright 2017 David R Moenich


-All Rights Reserved-


Description: Fiction...Suspense; Thriller; Mystery; Drama; Character Study; Romance; Horror; Humor.


Setting: 1800s Scotland




Frosted dew adorned the bleak moors at sunrise. Deep fog claimed the position of nemesis, disregarding all out-look for a bright day to become evident. There seemed a harbinger of ill intention, within the wicked chill about the air. Not a whisper within the thickets beyond the courtyard.


An estate in disrepair, quickly succumbing to decay, was such I bequeathed as home. Once a residence of nobility, it was now becoming somewhat reluctantly it seemed a habitation of compromised integrity. Such, thought I, was being evidenced by the mediocrity of those individuals dwelling within this manor. The unconcealed remained deeply hidden within those walls stained of a certain iniquity.


This dwelling, brimming royally with such an unrighteous ambiance, truly reflected those abiding within. Levity was all but naught; solemnity it seemed was constant. Each taskmaster, inept with their duties performed poorly...servants, they were...yet each of them were delusional within their self-achievement realized to them alone. To me, such was evident.


The servants loathed one another equally, bringing me some secret form of joy. Their respect for me was of minimum value for it was not genuine. I found them, however, amusing yet perplexing. At times I felt I lived within a sanitarium for those in mental anguish. Yet, still I wondered whose sanity was in jeopardy...theirs or mine. Was I their master or were they the masters of me? Perhaps, I was the servant after all.





Master Alston, I was referred to...however, that title meant little to me. Master...but naught even mastering my own indiscretions and faults, I assumed my dubbing....for better or for worthless. I feared my upbringing inadequate, placing the blame of my irrational attitude towards life as a quandary placed upon my person at birth and thereafter. It was in the fall of my life. Many leaves had withered and dropped from my branches, yet I provoked hopes of fresh buds of regeneration. I felt, however, as a shite in dying ardor.

Lost in my perhaps irrational thoughts and my increasing anxiety concerning the day's journey ahead of me, my mind drifted as I peered through the third floor bay window overlooking the stables. Memories plagued me...some trite, some intense. All such irrevocable remembrances were but opaque within my mysterious and irreversible as was the purple and green hue arising from the marsh nearby. All seemed appropriately toxic to both mind as well as to ambiance. Strategies of the heart, I feared, plunge deeply into a gorge of despair without remorse. Death cannot respond concerning its own demise.























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