the soft gentle touch of her hands, the smile that permeated sincerity. How they move the heart. Really, how often is someone's heart moved? Not often, so when it is, don't hesitate. There's got to be a reason for everything. Everything that happened in the past happened in such a way that the future would take place the way it will.

Thank you. Somebody

The archer strung his bow. Vile thoughts crowded his mind. Revenge seeped out of his eyes. He knew nothing but one, to strike where it mattered just so that someone felt the hurt.

Drawing an arrow from the quiver, he took aim. Concentrating his anger and hatred upon that single point, he plucked the bowstring. Steadying his arms and stance, he drew a deep breath, held it and fired the arrow.

With a sharp whoosh the arrow seared throught the air and propelled itself towards the unknowing target.

He looked on with vindictive pleasure as the arrow hit home. Blood poured out of the fatal wound. The target gasped for air as he clutched his chest. Where did the arrow came from? Why was it him? As he struggled for both life and answer, the cold and calming hands of Death enveloped him.

A wave of satisfaction overwhelmed him as he started to stir. His work here was done. Time for him to move on. As he packed and got ready to leave, he realised that his bowstring was still quivering.