The Well

Hooves pounded the desert sand. The rider said he’d come to drink the waters, that he’d heard the legends and followed an ancient map. And was it all true and was this the place?
Smiling, blind and toothless, the old man led him to a cave in the hills and showed him the well. The rider drank deep. The old man sighed and crumbled into dust.
Later, the rider stood in the porch of the old man’s tent-his tent and listened to the night wind making the canvas awnings flutter and flap. He sat. And waited.



Author: benrattle

Copywriter, aspiring screenwriter. Push up nut. Coffee drinker.

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