At about noon today Alex Athanassiou felt the breath of my bullet whisk past his shivering chin as he crept querulously up the stairs behind the dining hall. I was lodged in a dark nook beneath the roofspace, my chameleonic body precariously perched on the highest rungs of the ladder leading to the dining hall roofs. My trusty Warthog was trained upon the stairwell beneath me, and I caught the first lumbering footfalls of my sworn enemy approaching. Soon, the trembling top of his massy head appeared, and his thankfully clothed body followed. From time to time he twitched. I watched him for a moment, standing like a stuck insect on a card, and fired.

The arrow flew, fast and true at the head of Alex Athanassiou, but he shook again with fear--and shifted just aside. How closely did the arrow shave his shaking jowls, his sweaty face? Did it brush him as he faltered? It ricoceted in the stairs and Alex suddenly aware of death's proximity yelped, as if praying, as if unsure--"MISS?! MISS?!" I slammed another shaft into my weapon, cocked and fired, but he had stumbled down the stairs again, his heart between his feet.

How close you came today, my friend,
there's no one that can tell.
Some pass beyond its borders--mortals
touch the edge of hell,
but fear too much what they see
there and letting out a yell,
they whisk their worthless souls
back out--sour water from a well.

And if the arrow missed you, that
was aimed to make you end,
then shaking Alex, you must know
your fear's your greatest friend.

-jlm.

ps. Um, I don't actually mean that bit about "worthless soul."