By the rutted, single-track road, worried mothers stood guard as their newborn chomped on soggy nettles. Up ahead bug-eyed rams remained unmoved by the angry glare of oncoming headlights. These were the Laird’s prize stock – Charlie McPherson’s stock.
The hills and glens of Atlnasheean had been Charlie’s home and office for nigh on 30 years – he’d never once let the Laird’s beasts out of his sight.
Back at the estate, Charlie’s cottage lay dark and empty; cold embers dying in the hearth. On the hat stand his crook swung in the breeze – Charlie never went anywhere without his crook.
The rain was getting heavier, and louder; the gurgling hillside streams now foaming red.
These words form my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge. A couple of weeks ago a few of you said you liked stories which left you wondering what had happened, well here’s another!